From a Single Flame
by andromeda's song
Summary: The mysterious murder of an ambassador puts Sherlock on the trail of a new criminal mastermind...a woman that seems to have replaced Moriarty as the head of the criminal class. A new set of games erupts and the collateral damage runs deep. Blood is thicker than water as Mycroft faces demons from his past. Can Sherlock and John save him? (Est. John/Sherlock)
1. Servat regina colorem

**Hello! The idea for this fic came around while I was writing for my song prompt fic and I decided to chase this idea down and coax a full story out of it. One thing of note: I am neither consulting detective nor doctor nor resident of the United Kingdom. As such, I've done my absolute best to make sure that the deductions, the medical jargon, and the English-isms are as close to being right as humanly possible. If there's a glaring mistake, please let me know. If not...call it creative license. ;) I appreciate you taking the time to read this (and review it!). **

**You are all fantastic. :) Enjoy!  
**

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Ch. 1: _Servat regina colorem_

It all began innocently enough…if the poisoning of an Estonian ambassador can be considered innocent, that is.

Sherlock Holmes had received the call from Detective Inspector Lestrade about 25 minutes past 3:00 in the afternoon on a drizzly Tuesday. And when I say Sherlock received the call, I of course mean that John forcibly removed the phone from the man's trouser pocket (a motion that Sherlock most certainly did not protest) and answered for him. Sherlock, of course, was far too engrossed in the mold cultures that he had lying about the kitchen counter.

When John had finally managed to convince Sherlock that there was a poisoning and that would be far more entertaining than mold, the two men had hopped into a cab and gone across London to the ambassador's private estate. John and Sherlock were ushered into the building after being thoroughly examined by some somber-looking men in unassuming black suits. John was merely glad that he'd decided to leave his Browning handgun at home.

The consulting detective swept into the room—the dining room, by the looks of it—and proceeded to take a few moments to get acquainted with the space. He walked around the whole room twice, stopping every few feet to examine the mahogany table, the fibers of the carpet, or the windowsills. John, on the other hand, made his way to the body and Lestrade.

"John," the detective inspector said, "thank you for coming. This is one of the more bizarre things I've seen in my time."

"Coming from you, Lestrade, that says a lot," John replied, shaking the inspector's proffered hand. John knelt by the body and accepted the pair of latex gloves from the young technician standing by his side.

"It actually says nothing at all, since you people seem to find even the simplest cases bizarre." Sherlock swooped down on the other side, appearing out of nowhere like a gigantic bat with his ridiculous coat. The tech said nothing as she handed him a pair of gloves as well.

"Hey, if you'd rather that I not call you whenever we have cases, Sherlock, that can be managed," Lestrade warned.

"No, no, let's not pull him off cases just yet, please," John said hastily. He turned to frown at Lestrade. "You don't have to live with him when he's bored."

"Now, look here, John-'''

"Can we get back to the body, Sherlock?" John asked.

Sherlock frowned a little but turned his attention to the ambassador at his feet. He whipped out his magnifying glass and ran it to and fro whilst John checked the body's core temperature and the swollen, red patches of skin that had appeared on the man's neck and chest. John moved his hands to the side as Sherlock's glass came to rest on the skin over the man's heart.

"Lestrade?" Sherlock asked. "Why did you call this in as a poisoning?"

"Isn't that what it is?" Lestrade inquired.

"It's precisely what it is. But the presentation is anomalous and frankly I'm surprised you called it correctly." Sherlock raised an eyebrow at the glare that John was giving him. Oh. "No offense intended," Sherlock added, looking up at the inspector.

"Right…" Lestrade said slowly. But he shook his head and continued to speak. "We didn't find any evidence of a physical injury that might have been caused—no bullet holes, no knife wounds, no blunt force trauma—nothing. Our techs noted the discoloration of his skin and the swelling. Of course, Molly will check for signs of a heart attack or stroke, but my gut tells me this wasn't natural."

Sherlock nodded his chin towards the magnifying glass that was still lying over the ambassador's heart. "It wasn't natural, Lestrade. Not unless you count a poisonous injection to the heart as being a natural way to die." Lestrade quirked his eyebrow at the man and John leaned over to look at the skin under the glass. Sure enough, there was a small puncture mark right over the heart, which seemed to be the central locus of the patches of reddened, swollen skin.

"How on earth did you know that was there?" John asked, eyeing his partner.

"I looked for it," Sherlock answered, shrugging his shoulders. "Molly's blood tests should be able to tell us how this man died." He stood up and offered John a hand up as well.

"Bloody brilliant," Lestrade mumbled, jotting notes into his small notebook. Sherlock had the grace to blush. John nudged him in the ribs, a small smile playing on his face.

"Alright," Lestrade said to the pair of techs that were standing nearby. "Let's get this guy out of here." The three men moved out of the room and Sherlock was tallying off all of the observations he had made on his trips around the room and his deductions about the murderer.

"The killer is most likely a man, although-'''

"Wait," John interrupted. "I thought…statistically, isn't poison chosen more often by women than men?"

"Statistically speaking, yes, more women choose to murder by poison," Sherlock stated. "However, as a doctor you are well aware of the force that it takes to drive a needle into the chest cavity. A woman is less likely to have the strength necessary of getting the needle in."

"Well that's a little sexist," Sally Donovan said as she passed by. Sherlock glared at her.

"I speak only of what I observed, Donovan. Not only was the needle that delivered the poison driven into the man's chest cavity, but there are tracks in the carpet as well, and they are far too big to belong to a woman. It is within the realm of possibility that the murderer is a woman with calculable strength and big feet, but it is more statistically likely that we are looking for a man." Donovan rolled her eyes and walked away.

At that moment, one of the med techs poked his head out of the doorway and called. "Detective Inspector? Mr. Holmes? You might want to come and take a look at this."

The three men looked at each other before moving back into the dining room. The techs had gotten the body onto the stretcher, but they were circling the spot where the body had lain and looking down at the floor. They approached.

"What is it?" Lestrade asked. One of the techs pointed, but Sherlock was already there. He was on his knees and using a pair of forceps to pick up the item that lay on the ground. It was a small card, roughly the size of an index card but much more elegant. Sherlock saw that the paper was thick, creamy white in color, and tooled around the edges in fine shimmering gold filigree. The side he was holding was blank. When he flipped it over, he saw three words elegantly scripted in violet ink.

_Servat regina colorem_

John watched as Sherlock's face was drawn into a deep frown. "What does it say?" he asked. Sherlock stood and handed him the card. John snapped on an extra glove and took the card from him. He read the words and frowned as well, only his frown was in confusion. Lestrade read the words over John's shoulder. Both men turned to watch the pacing detective.

"Sherlock, what does it mean?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock halted in his tracks and turned to face the two other men.

"_Servat regina colorem_," he said, "is a chess term. It refers to the start of a game in which the queen's piece is relegated to the colored space that matches the queen herself. In chess, the queen is the most powerful piece as it can move in any direction."

Sherlock stopped speaking and locked eyes with John, who had visibly flinched at the word 'game'. Sherlock had returned only one year ago from their latest set of games.

"Do you think someone's trying to play games with us again, Sherlock?" John asked, his voice just above a whisper.

Sherlock's stare was both fire and ice. He plucked the card out of John's hands and threw it into an evidence bag, sealing it aggressively. He handed the bag to Lestrade and then stalked over to the window to stare out of it.

The silence in the room seemed to stretch on to eternity.


	2. Something New

Ch. 2: Something New

John juggled both mugs of tea in his right hand as he pushed open the door to the lab with his left. He tried to ignore the fact that the cups were burning his hand, but wasn't successful. He dashed through the door with a slight hiss and set the cups down on the table, shaking his hand in pain.

John's plight with the tea went completely unnoticed to his companion, the tall man who was currently hunched over a microscope and muttering to himself. John moved silently around the table and set the teacup beside him, trying to simultaneously leave the cup out of the way but in a place where he would notice it eventually. The last time John had left it sitting by his elbow, the man had sprang from his seat without warning, covering the floor, the table, and the surrounding detritus of papers in tea.

John cradled his own cup and went to sit by the centrifuge, which was currently processing the blood samples Molly had taken from the ambassador. Any minute now, the machine would spin out the answer to the riddle. John took a few moments to process what he knew about the body and the method of murder. The man had obviously been given an injection of something into his heart that caused it to stop and consequently caused his skin to swell, peel slightly, and change color. There was something in the back of John's mind that was telling him that he'd seen this before. Curious, John followed that thought into the dusty recesses of his memory. He was there for a while before it suddenly hit him. His eyes widened in recognition.

"Lead poisoning," he breathed. His words echoed in the silent space. Sherlock stiffened and looked up, throwing a glare in John's direction.

"John would you please stop thinking so loud, I-'''

"I'm an idiot!"

Sherlock frowned at being interrupted but decided to indulge his partner. "I've been telling you that for quite a long time, John. Are you just now catching up?"

John shot him a withering glare. "Funny, but you're an idiot too, we all are."

"What are you on about, John?" Sherlock's already thin patience was wearing down.

John stood and began to pace a little. "The ambassador…you said he'd been injected with something in the heart, right? And that something, whatever it is, caused the man's heart to stop and it also caused his skin to swell and change color. The thing is…I've seen this before. Never this acute, but I know what this is! It's lead poisoning."

John watched the gears turning in Sherlock's mind. "Lead poisoning?"

"Well, maybe not lead specifically," John said, "but definitely some kind of heavy metal toxicity. Heavy metal poisoning can make a person's skin swell and peel off, as well as causing inflammation and pain. Normally, this would take weeks or months to build up to such a toxic level in a person's system, but if you injected it directly into the heart…" John paused and spread his hands out wide, a small grin on his face.

Sherlock's mouth was hanging open slightly and he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "You will never cease to amaze me, John Watson," he said.

John blushed a healthy crimson and Sherlock chuckled, his irritation at being interrupted forgotten. "Really though, that is an excellent deduction and I daresay that you're correct. Is the centrifuge almost finished running?"

John checked. "Looks like it's still got a few minutes."

Sherlock waved his hands. "It's fine. We can probably deduce what sort of metal they used, considering that only certain heavy metals would have the correct properties to-'''

He was cut off as the intercom beeped from the corner. Molly's voice rang out from the small box. "Ummm, Sherlock? John? You should come see this." The puzzlement in her voice led Sherlock to immediately stand from his chair and leave the lab, John on his heels.

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They walked into the morgue, where Molly was standing by a stainless steel slab, the open corpse of the ambassador lying in front of her. She was wearing blue scrubs and a heavy black apron, her hands encased in blue latex gloves. She motioned them over and indicated that they should both put on a pair of gloves. Sherlock and John looked at one another, but did as the pathologist indicated.

When John had snapped on his gloves, Molly lost no time in handing over the dead man's heart. John took it, swallowing back a bit of bile that was rising in his throat. He was a doctor, sure, and an army doctor at that. But it had been quite some time since he'd held a human heart in his hands. It was a feeling that you never honestly got used to.

"I was looking at his heart for signs of a heart attack or a stroke, maybe a clot," Molly was saying. "I checked for structural abnormalities and signs of genetic disease or malformations. Honestly the ambassador was extremely healthy and his heart shows no signs of disease. And then I saw this…" She turned the heart over in John's hand and showed them a small, almost bruised-looking area. The injection site, then.

"Yes, Molly," Sherlock said. "We'd already decided that he died from an injection of some poisonous substance directly into his heart."

"And," John added, "we were just hypothesizing that it might have been a heavy metal that was injected since his skin shows signs of acute heavy metal toxicity."

Molly nodded. "And you'd be absolutely right about that. Has the centrifuge told you what it is then?" Both men shook their heads. Molly nodded again and turned to retrieve a petri dish from the rolling cart beside her. She handed the dish to Sherlock and took the heart back from John.

"This came spilling out from the man's heart," she said grimly. "It's-'''

"Mercury," Sherlock breathed, staring at the silvery liquid inside the dish. He couldn't keep the slight hints of awe out of his voice. He'd never seen anything quite like this before.

"That's… twisted," John muttered.

"It's brilliant," Sherlock replied.

"Sherlock…" John said. Only this man would think that a lethal injection of mercury was brilliant.

"It's horrible, of course, but you simply cannot deny the brilliance of it, John," Sherlock appeased.

"So, you've never seen anything like this before?" Molly asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "No…this is something new." He raised the dish to the light as a small grin played on his face.

**A/N: Just another friendly reminder that the last anatomy class I took was my junior year of high school and everything I know about pathology comes from watching TV. An expert I am not. Please read and review!**


	3. Theories to Suit Facts

Ch. 3: Theories to Suit Facts

Sherlock and John left the morgue and returned to the lab. The centrifuge had beeped out the results of the tests, confirming the fact that mercury was present in rather alarming quantities in the dead man's blood. Sherlock took the printed results, the petri dish full of mercury, and the small notebook he'd been working in and left the lab with John. They hailed a cab and went to New Scotland Yard to deliver their findings to Lestrade.

They had ridden in silence for a few minutes before John finally spoke. "So…do you have any theories then?"

Sherlock hummed under his breath as he took a brief inventory of all the facts. "Several," he answered.

John snorted. "Care to share?"

Sherlock rounded on his compatriot and gave him a wicked smile. "No… but I'd love to hear what you have to say, John."

John blinked. "Pardon?"

"At the moment you are in possession of 95% of the facts that I possess myself. You know my methods…apply them to what you know and see what conclusions you draw." Sherlock smiled again and settled back into the seat, his body turned so that he could look at John.

John's mouth was hanging open a little, but he closed it with a muffled snick of his teeth and cleared his throat. He sat in silence for a few moment, processing. Sherlock watched the wheels of his mind turning. John really did have an emotive face. The years and circumstances of his life had placed several gatherings of gentle lines on the man's face. Sherlock was able to read his rocky relationships with his family, his med school training, his time in Afghanistan, and John's time as his companion in those lines. His eyes traveled up to studiously examine John's pearly blue eyes that were currently fixed on dead space as he thought. Sherlock had many a time drowned in the pure kindness and loyalty that radiated from those eyes. A beam of light from the setting sun filtered in through the cab window and illuminated all the individual colors of John's hair. There were sandy blondes, golden blondes, coppery blondes, whitish blondes, and a few streaks of pure silver in that hair. As Sherlock catalogued all of the colors and all of the shades of blue in his eyes and all of the lines on his face, he finally realized the true meaning of the word beautiful. John Watson was beautiful. A beautiful face to match the beautiful soul. Sherlock's stomach flip-flopped uncontrollably and his heart sighed a little.

"Assassination attempt," John said, breaking into Sherlock's train of thought like a meteorite. Sherlock blinked a couple of times as John repeated himself. "I think it might have been an assassination attempt."

"A very astute deduction, John," Sherlock said, a tone of pride and satisfaction creeping into his voice. John couldn't stop the warm blush from creeping up his neck. "However," Sherlock continued, "it isn't correct by any means."

The words hit John like a bucket of cold water. He frowned, his lower lip pouting out a little. Sherlock surprised him by chuckling a little and leaning over to kiss that lower lip very tenderly, taking it in both of his own. John made a sound that was halfway between pleasure and annoyance. He allowed himself five…ten…twenty seconds of the mind-melting indulgence of Sherlock's warm lips before he retreated and shot a scowl at the man. Both of them were breathing a little heavier.

"That," John gasped, "wasn't fair. I'm still mad at you." Sherlock held up his hands in placation.

"It was a good deduction, John, even if it was incorrect. I actually considered assassination myself, but the facts don't all fit."

"Why not?" John asked, a slight hint of exasperation in his voice.

"Patience, John. I'll explain everything at the Yard. I've no doubt that Lestrade has come to the same conclusion as you."

John mumbled a few choice obscenities under his breath as he turned to look out the window, causing Sherlock to bite his cheeks to stop from grinning.

"By the way," John said casually, "I'm going to be asking you later what you were thinking when you were, uh…checking me out." There was a small grin toying with the corners of his mouth. Sherlock gulped.

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Sherlock strode into Lestrade's office, John on the tails of his coat. Lestrade was on the phone, muttering words like 'yes' and 'okay' every now and again. He hung up not long after the detective and the doctor entered, slamming the phone in its cradle and rubbing his tired eyes with long, tanned fingers.

"Everything alright, Greg?" John asked. He honestly didn't mean to pry, but the man was a friend and John was a doctor. He recognized the symptoms of emotional distress and exhaustion. For god's sake, John lived with Sherlock Holmes…he was the poster boy for emotional distress and exhaustion. These things happen when your…lover and partner is a manic consulting detective with a penchant for destruction.

"Hmm?" the inspector asked, dropping his hands and looking up at the two of them. "Oh, oh yeah, it's fine. Just the ex-wife... you know how that goes."

"Actually, seeing as how neither John nor I have an ex-wife-'''

"Sherlock," John interrupted.

"Not good?" the detective asked.

"A bit not good, yeah," John answered. Lestrade snorted a little and reclined back in his chair, stretching his arms over his head.

"So, Sherlock, do you have any theories on this one? Personally, I'm betting this is an-'''

"It's not an assassination attempt," Sherlock interrupted. John leaned his head against his hand and closed his eyes.

"What do you mean it's not an assassination attempt?" Lestrade spluttered. "It fits, doesn't it? The injection into the heart was perfect. It would have most likely gone unnoticed if it weren't for the fact that his skin was all messed up." Lestrade paused and scrubbed a hand across his face. "By the way, did you find out what was in that injection?"

Sherlock handed over the sheet and the petri dish. Lestrade took the items, looked at the liquid in the dish, and then spent a few minutes reading the paper. "Mercury?" he queried.

"An injection of mercury straight into the heart," Sherlock stated. "Enough poison to stop the man's heart and elicit a reaction from his skin in the form of swelling and discoloration. Now, the fact that the killer used mercury could potentially lead us in two directions. If it were another heavy metal, we might be led to find that the metal could only be purchased in certain quantities and by certain people. This would leave us with pretty definite answers as to who was behind the murder. Mercury, on the other hand, is a substance that you can find in any non-digital thermometer, so anyone could potentially get their hands on it."

He paused and picked up the dish of mercury and tilted it in his hands so that the liquid swirled about. "This fact indicates that our killer is subtle but bold, clever, and misleading. It's subtle because under the right circumstances an injection of some kind of poison into the heart muscles could easily be taken as a heart attack. However, the killer used mercury, a substance that is lethal but also found in what is essentially an everyday item. This tells us that the killer is also bold because when you would go to examine the organ, the mercury would surely spill out just as it did for Molly. The killer wanted us to know how they did it, hence the contradiction of subtle and bold. It's understated but oh-so clever and rather ingenious."

He stopped once again and fingered the evidence bag on the desk. It held the creamy white card inside, the violet words visible through the blurry plastic. "You were right, John, in stating that poison is the choice of weapon for many women. It's clean, efficient, and for the most part, easy to administer. However, this method of delivery suggests that it was in fact perpetrated by a man with reasonable upper body strength. However, we find this card at the scene, written in a definite female hand. And the words…_servat regina colorem_. They indicate that the author is in fact, demonstrating her cleverness and her boldness. She's telling us that she's setting up the game."

Sherlock took a deep breath as his hand settled on the card. "This was no assassination attempt. Assassinations are much more public and outrageous than this. They're meant to draw attention and make a spectacle. It's a political statement in the form of cold-blooded murder. This woman is demanding our attention, but not directly, like someone who is trying to make a public statement. She wants to make us dance specifically. And she's choosing to use other people to do the work for her, much in the same way that Moriarty did. But Moriarty never…well, he was a little more subtle than this. This woman has chosen to let us know from the start that she's watching us."

The silence in the small office seemed to stretch forever as Sherlock finished his diatribe. John had paled considerably and there were several emotions toying for control over his face. Sherlock moved a little closer to the chair John was sitting in and placed a thin hand on the man's shoulder. John leaned into the touch and sighed. Lestrade had been attempting to take notes during the speech, but now he threw the pen and pad of paper on the desk with an exasperated sigh.

"Well…sodding hell, Sherlock, what are we supposed to do now?"

Sherlock shook his head. "If we arrest the murderer, we'll have let her know that we've set up our gamepieces as well. And then…it's her move."

"Do you know who the murderer is then?" John asked.

"Oh," Sherlock mumbled. "Of course. It's terribly cliché, but the butler did it."

"Pardon me?" Lestrade said.

"The butler," Sherlock said. "The tread in the carpet revealed a scrap of rubber that contained a special polymer only found in orthopedic footwear. After reviewing the personnel files, I determined that the butler is your man. He was just hired a few weeks ago by the ambassador's estate, which means that no one particularly knew him, giving him excellent cover. He is a reasonably well-built man with enough strength to drive the needle into the chest cavity. He had access to the ambassador, he is a size 12 shoe, and he wears a special orthopedic shoe which he wears to remedy the fact that one leg is longer than the other, which can also be deduced by the length of his stride."

Lestrade stared at Sherlock for 4.3 seconds before he reached for the phone on his desk once more. John reached up to his shoulder and squeezed the detective's hand. "That's fantastic."

Sherlock squeezed John's shoulder affectionately in place of a verbal thank-you. But the satisfaction that Sherlock usually felt when he had solved a puzzle was absent. In its place, there was a nagging suspicion that something dark was lurking in the shadows of London. Moriarty had been the king of the criminal class and Sherlock had defeated him, at the cost of having to fake his own death and lie to his family and friends. The king had not gone down without a battle.

What was going to happen now that the queen had decided to join the war?


	4. Nothing or Everything

Ch. 4: Nothing or Everything

The cab ride back to 221 B was a silent one, both the consulting detective and his doctor lost in a sea of their own thoughts. In John's mind, the tempest of panic, fear, curiosity, and desperation threatened to overwhelm him. He remembered all too vividly what had occurred the last time Sherlock took on the head of the criminal class in London. This woman, this…madwoman that had already set herself apart from Moriarty…what was she going to demand from Sherlock? She had already demonstrated a cunning that was on a wholly different level, and John knew that was particularly attractive to his mad flatmate. It wasn't boring. It was new, it was different, and Sherlock Holmes was going to follow it like a moth to the flame. John felt the fear of new loss bubble up in his gut.

What John didn't know was that similar thoughts were playing through Sherlock's mind. Sherlock felt a simmering excitement in his brain, the kind of feeling he got whenever he was presented with a new problem that didn't have an immediate answer. If there was one thing Sherlock enjoyed, it was sociological novelty. People as a whole were panicky, mindless creatures who lived on the surface of creation and never saw the wonders of the universe until they were smacked in the face with them. Sherlock was not one of those creatures and so he found solace in the people who saw the world in a different way and proceeded to live in this different way. When this lifestyle happened to coincide with crime and wrong-doing, it was a match made in heaven for Sherlock Holmes. It represented a break from the monotony of existence.

But the Sherlock Holmes that had once only lived for the game of cat-and-mouse in the dark alleys of London and beyond had gone. In truth, that Sherlock Holmes had slowly been evaporating from corporeal existence since John Watson had entered his life. Sherlock wanted desperately to believe that people don't change, but he couldn't deny that he had indeed changed significantly since John had come into his life, and subsequently during his three-year hiatus chasing down Moriarty's web of criminals. During those three long years, Sherlock had faced a fair amount of mental and physical pain, but nothing compared to the sheer emotional pain he felt at being separated from John, and by extension, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade as well. Dysfunctional as they might be, these people were Sherlock's family. He'd lied to them and watched them sit alone with their grief over him, the high-functioning sociopath. Now that another clever criminal with a superiority complex had risen from Moriarty's ashes, Sherlock felt his usual excitement over a new puzzle. But it was now accompanied by a streak of fear and panic…fear of what it might cost to fight this person.

And so I believe it is a testament to these two men, sitting in a cab and awash in the tempestuous sea of their deepest fears, that neither of them blinked an eye when their hands found each other and held on for dear life. At that moment it was hard to tell who was the rock and who was the drowning man. Frankly, I don't think it mattered. Neither of them was going to be the first to let go.

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John collapsed on the couch with a heavy sigh, scooting back to rest his back against the arm and drawing his knees up to his chest. Sherlock took the other end, choosing to sit cross-legged and steepling his hands under his chin in his favorite thinking pose. They sat like this for a while in silence before John decided that he needed a cup of tea.

"Tea?" John asked Sherlock. Sherlock hummed a reply that could have been an affirmative or a negative, but John wasn't sure. He shrugged his shoulders and made two cups of the life-preserving liquid anyway. He placed Sherlock's mug on the coffee table in front of him and settled back into the sofa, drowning his sorrows in the hot tea like a good Englishman.

When John had finished his tea and placed his mug on the table in front of him, Sherlock finally stirred. He straightened out his legs and placed the Union Jack pillow on his lap. He reached over and tugged at the sleeve of John's jumper until the man himself had unfolded and stretched out, laying his head in the pillow on Sherlock's lap. John hummed in satisfaction as Sherlock's long fingers weaved into his hair and began to delicately caress the follicles.

John swallowed thickly and decided to start the conversation. "How can this be happening again?"

Sherlock's fingers stilled for a moment before returning to the soothing pattern. "We can't know for sure that it is indeed happening again. We would need more data to arrive at the correct conclusion."

John laughed. "Bollocks, Sherlock Holmes. When there's smoke, it's usually an indication that a fire is not far off."

"That is…statistically correct, John, but what I mean is that there's no way we can tell yet that the fire is being set for us. Moriarty's games were all aimed at me specifically. I was his toy, his plaything… all we know for sure at this moment is that a man killed the Estonian ambassador and a card with an obscure chess term was left at the scene. Smoke may equal fire, but all we have at the moment is the lighter. We cannot deduce fire from a single flame."

John sighed. "Okay, Sherlock, but what if it _is_ happening again? We may only have the single flame but that's all it takes to burn a house down."

Sherlock waved the hand unoccupied with John's hair around in front of him. "As I said, it's inconsequential at the moment. We don't have all the data-'''

"And you think that this person is just going to flounce up to our doorstep and share their evil plans so that you can have all your precious data?"

Both men jumped as four solid knocks sounded at the door of their flat. Neither of them moved to open it, but it wasn't necessary, because the door swung open and admitted Mycroft Holmes. The tall man strode gracefully into the flat and perched himself on the armchair that was closest to the couch. Sherlock felt John's body tense as if he were going to sit up, but instead the blonde man snuggled further down into Sherlock's lap, turning to face their visitor instead. Sherlock fought to keep the sunny smile off of his face and turned his attention to his elder brother.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock said in a sickeningly sweet voice. "How _are_ you, dear brother? How goes the diet?" He felt John's body quiver with silent mirth.

Mycroft's lips tightened and he shot a withering glance at his younger brother. "Sherlock. John. Good evening."

John chuckled aloud this time. "To what do we owe the pleasure, Mycroft?"

Mycroft sniffed. "There is that small matter concerning the Estonian ambassador, you know."

Sherlock grunted. "Dull. We've solved it already. The butler did it."

Mycroft gave him a simpering smile. "But we both know that wasn't the most interesting thing about the ordeal, don't we Sherlock?"

John sighed and stood up. He gathered the teacups from the table and went into the kitchen to make a fresh pot for all three of them. He never liked to be in the middle of a pissing match between the two Holmes brothers. At least Mycroft had an umbrella…

Sherlock watched John sweep into the kitchen and busy himself with the kettle. He turned his attention back to Mycroft and pulled a plastic evidence bag out of his jacket pocket without a word. He tossed the bag to Mycroft, who caught it in one hand and turned it over to look at it. An upraised eyebrow was the only reaction the man gave to the contents of the bag.

"I assume no trace evidence was found," Mycroft said.

"Nothing except for what is easily deduced on the surface," Sherlock replied. He accepted the cup of tea that John was currently holding in front of him.

"Hold on, what can you tell other than the fact that a woman wrote it?" John asked. He had given everyone their tea and reclaimed his spot on the couch, albeit he was sitting up this time.

"It's elementary, my dear Dr. Watson," Mycroft said. He opened the bag and dumped the card on the table before him, using a pen to prod it into place. "The card is thick and the paper has a…high thread count, if you would. The texture of the card and the filigree on the edges is not a quality you would find in the market. This is expensive cardstock and the lack of a watermark or a logo of any sort would suggest that it was made specifically for someone. So, we're left to conclude that the owner of the stationery has money. The writing tells us that yes, a woman did indeed do the scripting. The quality and color of the ink tells us that she used an old-fashioned fountain pen, which can also be deduced by the pressure points we can see here and there. So, we're looking for a woman, well-off and with a fondness for antiquity, as given by her use of the stationery and the fountain-pen. The woman is someone who embodies a desire not so much of anonymity but of mystery. She wants to be noticed but not recognized."

John gaped. Sherlock hadn't been kidding when he said that Mycroft possessed his talents but in a greater quantity. "Brilliant," he breathed.

"Elementary," Sherlock snorted.

"You have no doubt given a thought to the metaphorical implications behind the message, then," Mycroft stated. "_Servat regina colorem_… quite an introduction, if I do say so myself."

"It tells us nothing," Sherlock muttered.

"Or it might tell us everything, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "Let us not forget the last chess game you started."

"I started nothing," Sherlock spat. "But I finished it." He stood and stalked over to the window, retrieving his violin as he went. He stood at the glass for a moment, his long fingers plucking out scales and arpeggios.

"Sherlock," Mycroft began.

"Why are you here, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked. "You could have gotten any of this information from your toadies. You are the British government, after all."

Mycroft stood and fixed his younger brother with a stare. "The ambassador was a friend," he said. And with that, he swept out of the room, leaving the detective and the doctor at a loss for words.

That evening, the sound of sorrowful violin melodies filled the air within 221 B.


	5. A Holmes Man

Ch. 5: A Holmes Man

On the other side of London, a man was getting into a lift. He jabbed the button for the top floor and proceeded to brush invisible lint off of the sharp dinner jacket he was wearing as the lift began to ascend. He combed his fingers through his short, salt-and-pepper hair and adjusted the necktie nestled at his throat. The adrenaline was still riding high in his bloodstream, giving him an edge that no drug had ever been able to do.

The lift pinged softly, indicating that it had arrived. The man stepped out and walked to the end of the elegantly decorated hallway, pausing before a plain white door with the number 13 in shiny brass letters tacked on the front. He knocked three times and waited. After a few moments, the door was opened by a beautiful woman and he stepped inside.

The woman who had opened the door led him through the suite and into the posh living room. An electric fireplace lit the room with a dull orange glow and the expensive décor cast odd shadows about the room. The only other light came from the white glow of the full moon that was cascading in through the picture window. Another woman stood in front of the window, gazing out into the night at the twinkling façade of London. The sleek sheath dress she was wearing hugged delicate curves and left her back bare so that her carefully sculpted shoulder blades could be seen. She was wreathed in a tumult of color; the pale glow of the moon fighting for control with the shadows and the blazing glow from the fireplace.

The first woman indicated that he should have a seat, so he chose the end of the velvety couch and sat down as the woman moved off to another part of the room. The woman at the window gave no indication that she knew he was there. He knew better than that, though.

"Scotland Yard is looking for you," the woman at the window said. Her voice was crisp and cleanly accented.

The man frowned. "That's impossible."

The woman chuckled, her laugh ringing in the air like the toll of a funerary bell. "Do you think I'm lying to you, Charlie?"

Charlie swallowed the bile that was rising in his throat. "No, ma'am."

The woman turned to face him, the moon backlighting her and casting her face into shadow. "Then perhaps you would care to tell me how this all happened." The first woman reentered with two glasses of blood-red wine. She handed a glass to the two occupants of the room and retreated into the shadow. The woman took a slow sip of the crimson liquid. Charlie took a significantly larger drink.

"I did everything exactly the way you told me," he said, trying to ignore the nervous tension that was building in his stomach and threatening to bubble up. "I left no traces."

"Obviously that is not the case, Charlie. I'm very much afraid that you've failed me."

Charlie downed more of the wine in an attempt to calm his nerves. "I swear, I only did what you told me to do, I didn't leave anything behind except the card, just like you said." Charlie thought frantically. A thought struck him. "Wait! It was that busybody Holmes! You know what he's like, you know how much trouble he is! It's not my fault!"

The woman's voice dropped to a low growl. "Believe me, Charlie. I am all too aware of the problems surrounding the name Holmes. It does not change the fact that you are no longer useful to me." She sipped patiently at her wine.

Charlie panicked. "No, wait… I can still be useful to you. I'll…I'll change my appearance. I'll change my name. I can disappear for a while and then come back, you know…hide out."

In the darkness, the woman smiled to reveal even, white teeth. "You're right, Charlie. You will most definitely disappear."

At that precise moment, Charlie's head began to swim and his vision began to blur. The wine glass fell out of his hands and the dregs of the red liquid spilled out onto the pristine carpeting. He tried to stand up, but a force stronger than gravity pulled him back down to the sofa. He struggled mightily to breathe as black and red dots started to phase across his vision.

The last thing he felt was the woman's cool hand caressing his cheek. Then, his world faded.

00000000000

As the man named Charlie died, the woman who had served the wine—the woman known only as Persephone—pressed two buttons on her mobile. Two men in unassuming black suits stepped forward from the shadows, each grabbing an end of the departed man's body. Both women watched them go in silence.

Persephone picked up the crystal wine glass and returned to the kitchen. She opened the lid of the trash bin and used the edge to smash the delicate glass. She broke the glass into pieces and deposited them all in the bin. She hissed as one of the slivers nicked the skin of her thumb. She moved to the sink to rinse the blood from her finger before it started to leak on her dress.

She didn't hear the other woman enter the kitchen, but when she turned around from the sink, she was there, holding a plaster in one hand and a small smile on her face. Persephone took the plaster and nodded her thanks. The other woman poured her a glass of the red wine and handed it to her. Again, Persephone received it and nodded her thanks. She took a sip of the ambrosia before speaking.

"Charlie was right, you know. Mr. Holmes was there and if it weren't for him they surely would have never known."

The other woman ran her finger around the edge of her glass. "I know that. It doesn't change the fact that he was of no more use to us."

Persephone shook her head. "No, it doesn't. But what if Holmes manages to track us down? I've no doubt he's capable of doing so."

"Nor I," the other woman replied. "He will find us, but all according to my timeline, I think." She raised her glass in a toast. "After all, I do crave the attention of a Holmes man."


	6. Hit and Miss

Ch. 6: Hit and Miss

Sherlock was first aware of the sunlight pouring into the room. Based on the slant, the color, and the warmth of the rays, he guessed it was somewhere around 8:30 in the morning. He looked over at the alarm clock on the bedside table. 8:35. Close enough.

Sherlock was secondly aware of the warm body that was snuggled into his side and breathing deeply against him. This awareness came with a secondary mindfulness of the fact that his left arm was being used as a pillow for John's blonde head. Sherlock flexed the fingers of that hand only to find that they were entwined with the fingers of John's right hand. Sherlock's body was curled around John's and he'd placed his right hand on the shorter man's hipbone. He took a minute to revel in the gloriousness of the moment. He also had to stifle a chuckle as he realized what was happening. Never in his life did Sherlock Holmes imagine that he would be—what did they call it?—the big spoon.

Apparently Sherlock's attempts to quiet his chuckle were for naught, because he felt John squeeze his hand and mumble, "What's so funny?"

Sherlock pressed his lips to the back of John's neck. "Nothing."

John flipped over so that he was facing his partner. A sleepy smile lit up his face. "Why don't I believe you?"

Sherlock stretched forward to kiss that smile. "I honestly don't know, John. I am a very trustworthy person."

John laughed as riotously as he could for someone who had just woken up. "This, coming from the man who has blown up our microwave on four separate occasions and leaves heads in the fridge even though I tell him not to."

Sherlock pouted. "They were just-'''

"Just experiments, John, I promise!" John grinned sleepily at Sherlock's deepening pout. He kissed the man's full lips deeply, slowly, and lovingly and Sherlock was apparently not offended enough to forgo reciprocating. John snaked a hand up to thread into the man's dark curls.

"You know," John gasped as he broke off for air, "there are a few experiments I think we could probably look in to that haven't produced consistent results."

Sherlock's grin was wicked. "I do so hate inconsistencies in my experiment results."

John had just tensed his thigh muscles to prepare to swing himself up and over his partner when both of their mobiles started to ring. The strident tones were like a bucket of cold water over the both of them. John buried his head into Sherlock's chest and sighed. Sherlock patted his head and then they both moved to grab their respective phones off the bedside table.

"Is yours from Lestrade?" John asked. Sherlock hummed an affirmative. The message was the same:

**Butler's body found. **

**I'll be there in 15.**

000000000000

40 minutes later, Lestrade pulled up to the crime scene and he, John, and Sherlock exited the vehicle and made their way to the body. It had been unceremoniously dumped in the middle of a public park and an early morning jogger had literally stumbled over it.

Sherlock approached the body and began to examine it in the immediate surroundings. The man was lying face up in the mud, his eyes open and glazed over. He was wearing a formal dinner jacket and what had once been crisp black trousers. The black patent leather shoes on his feet were polished but now pocked in the same grey mud as the rest of him. He was tall and had salt-and-pepper hair and a trim goatee of the same color. Sherlock was smugly satisfied to see that one leg was indeed longer than the other.

"Business meeting gone bad?" Lestrade asked the detective.

Sherlock didn't look up at the man but replied, "He wasn't murdered here."

"How do you know that?" Lestrade queried.

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer but was surprised when John gave a voice to his thoughts. "There isn't any mud on the soles of his shoes." John was crouching at the man's feet and looking the body up and down. Sherlock kept a smile to himself but couldn't help the overwhelming sense of pride flooding his brain. John really was getting better.

"Precisely, my dear Dr. Watson," Sherlock said, coming round so that he, John, and Lestrade were all looking at the dead man's shoes. "If the man had been murdered here, we would expect to see this mud that we're standing in caking the bottom of his shoes and the hem of his trousers. Instead, we find that the mud has splattered all over the backsides of his trousers and his coat…basically everywhere except for the soles of his shoes. This man didn't fall here, he was dumped here."

"I'll be damned," Lestrade muttered as he went to fetch a med tech. Sherlock snuck a brief kiss at John's temple, his own way of telling the doctor he was pleased. John smiled and moved around to check other bits of the dead body. Sherlock moved to the man's mouth and pried it open with gloved fingers. He leaned over and unceremoniously took a whiff inside the dead man's mouth.

"Uh, Sherlock?" John asked. Both of his eyebrows were raised at the man.

"Wine," Sherlock muttered. "Whatever killed this man was in the wine he was drinking before he died. I can still smell it on his breath. It smells like it was heavily spiced…probably trying to disguise the taste of the poison. We'll have to get Molly to examine his stomach contents and run some tests."

"Another poisoning then," Lestrade said as he joined them. Sherlock and John stood upright and the three men formed a triangle over the dead man's body. "We can confirm that this is the butler from the ambassador's residence. His name's Charles Denniman, 43 years old. Did some time a few years back for drugs and theft, but apparently has been clean since he left prison."

"That's because he's found something better than cocaine," Sherlock said. He had recognized the faint track lines that had been on the inside of the man's wrists. "Our former drug abuser had become a mercenary."

"How do you know that?" John asked, the skin between his eyebrows furrowing in puzzlement.

"What else are you when you've murdered a foreign ambassador without any obvious reason? Not to mention that he's got a very expensive suit…someone's been paying him handsomely for his troubles."

"A mercenary," Lestrade breathed. "So…it _was_ an assassination attempt. On the ambassador, I mean."

Sherlock shook his head impatiently. "No, I told you, the crime is lacking the political outrage and spectacle that accompanies most assassinations. There's nothing to connect the ambassador and this man besides the fact that Mr. Denniman here murdered the ambassador and was then killed himself."

"So why…" John struggled to put his thoughts together. "Why all this? Why murder an ambassador from a relatively unknown country like Estonia and then murder the murderer?"

Sherlock was silent for a moment and stepped away from the body and began to pace. Lestrade and John followed but kept their distance. Sherlock paced in long strides for a few minutes before pulling up to a halt beside them.

"I cannot think of any reason at the moment as to why the Estonian ambassador would have been killed. His death either occurred because of some connection that he had to this mysterious woman that left her card at the scene or it occurred as a pure coincidence to get our attention. Either way, the person that Charles Denniman worked for must have discovered that we found evidence that would lead us to him and probably to them. He was the weak link in the chain and they had to get rid of him. He was killed elsewhere…trace evidence might lead me to deduce where…and then dropped here."

Lestrade and John stood in silence for a few moments as they processed all of this. Suddenly, John quirked his head to the side and said, "I think I know someone who might know why the ambassador was targeted."

Lestrade shot him a look of surprise and even Sherlock's brow furrowed in temporary puzzlement. John raised his eyebrow at his partner and it clicked in Sherlock's brain. The tall man rolled his eyes and sighed exasperatedly.

"John, you can't be serious…"

"He's got to know something, Sherlock. He said he was a friend."

Lestrade threw up his hands. "You boys want to tell me what you know that I don't?"

"Mycroft," John said with a small smirk on his face.

And so as the world's only consulting detective and his blogger left the crime scene, one mystery had been solved but a new one was simply put into its place. The question in John's mind remained the same; were they going to be able to put all of the pieces together and find out who was at the top before it was too late?


	7. Show and Tell

Ch. 7: Show and Tell

Sometimes it alarmed John that all he had to do was nod discreetly at any CCTV camera in London and a long, black car would show up within three to five minutes and whisk him away to wherever Mycroft was located at the moment. Considering what he and Sherlock did for a living, it had definitely come in handy more than once, but it still made him slightly paranoid. What was that saying his army buddies used to banter about? It isn't paranoia if you know they're out to get you. It was awfully ironic.

As the car pulled up to the curb, Sherlock's mouth twisted into a sour frown, but he climbed into the car behind John and shut the door firmly. He felt a buzzing in his pocket and he pulled out the lighted mobile and read the text.

**Something on your mind? MH**

Sherlock snorted. John threw him a look but Sherlock was too busy clacking away at the keyboard to answer the questioning look.

**John seems to think you can answer a few of our questions. SH**

**I daresay I can. MH**

**Cooperation? How novel, Mycroft. SH**

**Who said anything about cooperation? MH**

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and leaned over to show John the exchange. When John read the last message, his brow furrowed and he made a noise in the back of his throat that sounded suspiciously like a growl. Sherlock smirked and typed back.

**It would not do to irritate Captain Watson at the moment. Remember, he killed people. SH**

**He was a doctor. MH**

**I've been informed that he's had bad days. SH**

**Amusing. We will discuss this when you arrive. MH**

Sherlock clicked off his phone, put it back in his pocket, and wiggled down into the soft seats of the car. John was staring out the window, apparently lost in his thoughts. Sherlock watched him, trying to deduce what he was thinking about. There was a very good chance that the man was thinking about the implications of the case that was still partially unresolved. Yes, they had figured out who had murdered the ambassador, but that man had also been murdered. Charles Denniman had obviously been a liability and so his employers had severed the ties and silenced a loose tongue. That much was obvious, but the thunderhead that still lay over them was this; why? Where was the motive? The Estonian ambassador was a fairly neutral political player and lay under the radar of most international circles. Why did this mystery woman want him dead? Why had she left that card at the scene? Was this a new game or just a massive coincidence? He almost snorted at that. In his experience, there was no such this as coincidence.

John had felt Sherlock's eyes studying him, but when he finally tied off the stream of consciousness in his mind, he looked over at his companion to find that he had been drawn into his own train of thought. His pearlescent blue eyes were glazed over and his fingers were absentmindedly tapping patterns on his thighs. John had lived with Sherlock for long enough to recognize those motions and that look. Living and being with Sherlock was like learning a language by just going to a new country and throwing yourself in with the natives. It was hard and bewildering and sometimes you were completely at a loss for what to say and what to do. But eventually, you'd learn enough vocabulary and idioms and hand signs to effectively communicate. John was nowhere near fluent in Sherlock Holmes, nor would he ever be, but he knew enough to get by.

The car finally reached their destination, which turned out to be Mycroft's home. John was a little amazed—of course he knew somewhere in his brain that the man had a home, but he'd never pictured Mycroft as a…domestic. John had always pictured him just kipping on the sofa in his office and such. Now an image came unbidden to his mind of Mycroft in pyjamas with little umbrellas printed on them, his perfectly coiffed hair mussed and holding the morning paper and a cup of tea. He had to hold back his laughter as they approached the top stair, but he couldn't help a little strangled giggle escaping his lips.

Sherlock threw him an odd look. "Are you quite alright, John?"

John coughed a few times and nodded. "Tell you later," he promised.

Sherlock titled his head in puzzlement but nodded and crossed his arms. John looked at him. "Aren't you going to ring-'''

John's question was silenced at the door in front of them opened on silent hinges. Mycroft stood on the threshold and John was almost saddened at the lack of umbrella pyjamas. The man was there in one of his perpetual suits, pressed within an inch of its life and more expensive than John's entire wardrobe. The Holmes' lifestyles never ceased to amaze and stun John Watson.

"Sherlock, John," Mycroft greeted. "Please, come in." The words were neither sarcastic nor pleasant. Mycroft stepped back and began to walk into another set of rooms while the two men stepped inside and closed the door. Sherlock began to remove his shoes and John shot him an odd look.

"Mycroft is partial to the Eastern European tradition of removing one's shoes before entering a house," Sherlock explained. "He spent a year abroad in Japan and the habit stuck." John nodded his head in acknowledgement and removed his shoes.

Sherlock led the way into a tastefully Zen sitting room, the walls painted a dusky grey and adorned with what John took to be authentic Japanese art. The sound of trickling water was coming from somewhere in the room, but John couldn't pinpoint an exact location. There was something so serene about the place that John could almost feel the tension draining away from his body. His muscles relaxed and a weight lifted from inside his brain. He held back the urge to sigh contentedly.

Mycroft was seated in a leather armchair and pouring them tea from a delicate pot on the table in front of him. Sherlock and John accepted their cups and took their places in individual armchairs across from Mycroft. The three men sat in silence for a few moments, allowing the tranquility of the space to pervade their senses and the warmth of the jasmine tea to fill their stomachs.

"So," Mycroft said, finally breaking the silence. "I understand that you have some questions for me."

"We do," John said. "And I think you're going to answer them as succinctly and honestly as you can, Mycroft."

Mycroft fixed the doctor—_no_, he thought, _the captain now_—with a look that was hinged somewhere between indignation and respect. Then he caught Sherlock smiling into his teacup and decided to give John Watson what he wanted.

"You'll meet no resistance from me, John."

John blinked at having met none of the infamous Holmes stubbornness, but he didn't let that hold him for long. "Yes…well, we need you to tell us more about the Estonian ambassador and why someone would have wanted to kill him."

Mycroft glanced at Sherlock, who offered him only a raised eyebrow. Mycroft cleared his throat and began to speak.

"Andrus has been Estonia's ambassador for thirteen years and my friend for many more than that. He received his education here in London and was a year ahead of me at University. We grew to be colleagues and eventually friends. He has been an important political ally and has proved his prowess in state affairs many a time."

John nodded. "Can you think of any reason why someone would murder him?"

Mycroft huffed a breath out of his nose and smirked. "I do not even believe that 97% of this country would be able to tell you that Estonia is a country on the Continent, let alone the fact that they have an ambassador in England." He waved a hand in the air as if to say 'I don't know'. "Andrus was a politician but not a dynamic one. He was good but Estonia is relatively unknown and non-influential in major political circles. I can think of no reasons as to why Andrus had to die."

Something in the way that Mycroft said that last sentence tickled Sherlock's brain. "Someone had a reason," he interjected. "In fact, someone hired a mercenary to jab Andrus in the heart with an injection of mercury. Non-influential politicians don't warrant such a…unique passing." The man leaned forward in his chair a little. "Come on, Mycroft. What did he know?"

Mycroft fixed his brother with an icy glare before standing and walking over to the tall window. He looked through the crystal clear glass for a few moments, weighing his options. He almost snorted at that. Options… it's not like he had options at this point. He practically was the British government and he'd been backed into a corner by his little brother and his partner. There were ways of getting rid of them without having to answer their inquiries, but Mycroft had practically raised Sherlock. He knew how persistent he was. Having John Watson on his side was just as bad, since the man had an almost Holmesian streak of stubbornness and insistence. Sometimes it was admirable. Today it was just annoying.

Sighing heavily, Mycroft retreated to the small desk in the corner of the room and retrieved two pieces of paper. He handed one to each of the men before retaking his own seat. John had raised both eyebrows as he read the sheet in his hands.

"A non-disclosure agreement?" he questioned. He watched Sherlock scribble out his signature on the bottom of the page without question. Sherlock handed Mycroft the agreement and they both turned to stare at him. John sighed and took the proffered pen from Sherlock's hand.

"Thank you," Mycroft said. "By signing the non-disclosure agreement, you both concede that if you discuss the nature of this conversation, you can and will be prosecuted." He waited until both men nodded, noticing how John's skin blanched ever so slightly. Mycroft nodded in return and launched into the tale.

"Andrus and I were a part of a top-secret international committee aimed at drawing up a naval treaty with a…foreign nation. The committee was formed through a missive from NATO two years ago and is currently reaching its final stages."

"Who were you forming the treaty with?" John asked.

"If I told you, I'd have to kill you," Mycroft said with a small smile on his face. John raised an eyebrow but Sherlock chuckled. The bastard probably knew the answer anyway.

"Why would someone murder Andrus over the treaty? Who else knew about it?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft shook his head. "That I truly don't know. I believe I knew him well enough to state unequivocally that Andrus was no traitor. All of the delegates on the committee were chosen because of our clearances and our…abilities to keep secrets."

"But someone must have found out," Sherlock pressed.

"Obviously," Mycroft said. "But I have no reason to believe that Andrus was the one with…loose lips, as it were."

Sherlock peaked his hands under his chin. "Your aides, then."

Mycroft tilted his head back and forth. "Possible, but our aides have clearances as high as we do and in some cases even greater abilities to keep secrets. They were all screened and processed as we were."

The silence in the room stretched on for some time, each of the men lost in their thoughts. Finally John shook his head and sighed loudly.

"This is something out of a spy novel. A mysterious murder, a shadowy villainess leaving vague cards at crime scenes, a secret international committee… surely this is just all…a giant coincidence."

Sherlock was the one to answer him. "John, you've been working with me for a long time. Surely you don't believe in coincidence anymore."

John bowed his head for a moment. "Of course not. It's just all a little… out there, if you ask me." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "It sounds dangerous."

Sherlock's grin was anything but innocent. "It sounds like fun."


	8. An Opening Statement

Ch. 8: An Opening Statement

Henry Newton awoke with a start and stared into the darkness of his bedroom. He labored to slow his heart rate and his breathing, swiping the sweat from his brow. It had been three months since Tanya's passing and he still had the most vivid nightmares… Silent tears leaked from his eyes as he remembered his beloved wife's smiling face, bright and cheerful even through the darkest days of her illness.

He looked at the alarm clock beside his bed. 2:48 am. He sighed, knowing that he wouldn't be going back to sleep any time soon. He threw back the covers and got up, padding out to the kitchen in his bare feet, not even bothering to put on his robe over his pyjamas. He poured himself a glass of milk and warmed it in the microwave. He pulled up a stool to the island in the middle of the kitchen and sat down with his drink. This was his routine.

He heard more footsteps echoing in the hallway, glancing up to see his teenage son enter the kitchen. Ryan's shaggy brown hair was sticking up every which way and he too had forgone his robe. Henry watched as his son poured himself a glass of milk and heated it as well. He joined his father at the island and they sat together, sipping their milk in silence. Henry was disheartened at knowing that this was his son's routine as well.

Both father and son stiffened when they heard a muffled thump. There was no one else in the house except for Henry and Ryan. Henry motioned at his son to stay put, reaching into the canister on the island and grabbing the rolling pin as he went. He left the kitchen, tiptoeing through the now silent house, looking around but seeing nothing.

"Dad!" Henry spun as he heard Ryan's strangled cry from the kitchen, but he could do nothing as he felt something heavy crash into the back of his skull. Henry Newton's world went black.

000000000000000

Juliana Smith grunted as she half-carried her friend through the door of the flat and laid her out on the dilapidated paisley couch in the living room. Juliana looked at the heap of a woman spread out on the piece of furniture and shook her head. Gabriela had to stop doing this. The woman would go out to the pubs and get thoroughly pissed and then she'd call Juliana and cry and giggle until Juliana could coax her to give her an address to pick her up. Juliana looked at the poor woman and thought the time for an intervention might be at hand.

She walked into Gabby's kitchen and took a glass from the cupboard and filled it at the tap. After a second's hesitation, she stopped in the loo and grabbed the small wastebasket from the corner. She placed the bucket beside the couch and put the glass of water on the table, laying out two small tablets of paracetamol with it. She pulled the crocheted afghan off the back of the hideous couch and threw it over Gabby's body.

Juliana leaned over and kissed the woman's forehead, whispering "Goodnight, Gabriela, you idiot."

"I heard that, Jules," Gabby muttered. Juliana was impressed, actually, believing that Gabby had lost consciousness twenty minutes ago.

Juliana left the flat, locking it behind her with Gabby's spare key. She came down the steps and walked out to the street, looking for a cab in the quiet evening.

She never even heard the footsteps approaching from behind her. All she remembered was the sharp pain in her neck and then falling into a black hole.

0000000000000

Oliver Ashburne finished the wine in his glass with one final swallow, savoring the way the perfect vintage tasted in his mouth. He placed the glass back down on the table, brushing the pad on his laptop and bringing it back to life. He sighed heavily as he glanced through the list of files he still had to complete before he went to bed. Clicking his tongue against his teeth, he clicked open the first file and began to read.

Thirty minutes later, his eyes were straining to focus on the bright screen and his hand was beginning to cramp from all the notes he was taking. He pushed his chair back, rolling his neck and cracking his knuckles. He looked at the display on his computer for the time. 2:03 am. Ugh. He'd have to up and back to the office in six hours and there was no way he was going to be a functioning adult if he stayed up all night.

Screw it, he thought. He closed the lid of his computer and picked up his wine glass. He walked back into the kitchen and poured himself another glass of the blood-red concoction, breathing in the sweet, spicy scent. He'd just picked up this bottle tonight with his dinner, and you know what, that's saleswoman was right. It was an excellent vintage.

He'd swallowed a few more mouthfuls and decided to take the rest of the glass with him to the bedroom. He put the cork back in the bottle and left it on the counter. Grabbing his glass, he took a few steps towards the hallway when he began to feel…woozy. He frowned. He'd had two glasses, there was no way he was drunk! Nevertheless, he felt his world slowly dissolving into darkness, the wine glass falling from his hand. He never heard it hit the floor.

0000000000

Rupert Frederickson inhaled the sweet smoke from his cigar and walked over the back of the dark van. The two men standing guard there came to attention and the one on the left opened the door. Rupert looked in the back and saw three unconscious bodies lying on the floor, all bound and gagged like Christmas geese. Rupert let a devious grin play on his face and a deep, bass laugh rumbled from his chest. His dark brown eyes were alight in the orange glow from the end of the stogie clamped between his teeth. This was going to be fun.


	9. Familiar Territory

Ch. 9: Familiar Territory

If Detective Inspector Lestrade could be granted any wish at the moment, he would have wished for at least four clones of himself. His phone had been ringing off the hook for an hour and a half, people of every rank and office had been in his office, Mycroft Holmes had called him three times, and to top it all off, he hadn't even had a single cup of coffee to compensate for all of the madness. Three Ministers from the House of Commons had all disappeared and that was enough to get the whole of Scotland Yard buzzing with activity. Not his division was not their problem today. He stood up from his desk, deciding that he needed a moment, and slammed the door of his office shut, leaning up against it wearily. It was only 9:30 in the morning…

He suddenly felt an insistent force push against the door, and it caught him unawares, sending him half-sprawling across the floor. The door flung open the rest of the way to admit a grim-faced Sherlock Holmes and an equally stoic John Watson. Lestrade bit back a groan. He had to admit that he did care for both men as his friends and compatriots, but right now he was not in the mood for Holmes' superiority or Watson's…well, admittedly he could use some of Watson's legendary patience at the moment.

"What do you want, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked. He was completely taken aback when the consulting detective handed him a covered cup of hot coffee. Lestrade took it with a raised eyebrow, and Sherlock answered him with a matching eyebrow. John was beaming in the background like a proud parent.

"Uh…thanks," Lestrade said, sipping at the life-giving liquid gratefully. He sighed as the caffeinated beverage flowed into his bloodstream, immediately satisfying him.

"What can we do to help?" John asked him, stepping forward to be level with Sherlock.

Lestrade shook his head and sighed. "How is it that you two know already? I just found out myself an hour ago."

Sherlock allowed himself a small half-smile. "Having a brother in the British government is rather useful sometimes."

"Of course," Lestrade muttered. He took another swallow of the coffee, not caring that it singed his throat a little. He set the cup down on his desk and threw on his coat. "Let's go then," he said, picking the cup back up and leaving the office. The consulting detective and the doctor followed him dutifully.

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The three men stepped over the threshold of the small house and into the hallway. Sherlock was instantly engaged in the double tasks of observing his surroundings and listening to Lestrade's voice.

"Henry Newton, 42, widower. Lives here with his teenage son, Ryan. Ryan says that last night he and his dad were having a glass of warm milk together when they heard a noise coming from the hallway. Ryan said Henry took the rolling pin and went to check it out. He was just about to come after him when he said he felt a prick on the side of his neck. He managed to yell for his father before he passed out. Never saw anyone and doesn't remember anything other than that."

Sherlock heard John asking Lestrade some questions about the boy, but his mind blocked out the sounds of their voices as he focused on the hallway in front of him. He ducked into the kitchen and let the scene play out in front of him like a slow-motion movie. _Newton and the boy, sitting at the island. Milk…warmed…neither of them could sleep, obviously still distraught over death of wife/mother. Irrelevant. They hear a noise from the front hallway. Newton goes to look, tells boy to stay where he is, takes the rolling pin from the canister. Newton walks, no…sneaks into the hall on tiptoe, gets about halfway down. The son cries out, Newton pivots and then goes down. _

Sherlock's mind cleared and he found himself standing in the hall, John and Lestrade looking at him pointedly. He pointed to the carpeting around him which had miraculously remained pristine despite Lestrade's bumbling band of baboons traipsing around.

"It was done here," he said. "Newton came out to the hall, he was walking this way towards the front door." Sherlock pointed. "He heard his son cry out and he pivoted on the ball of his foot here," he pointed again to the evidence on the carpet. "A man…no, men came up behind him and hit him with something."

"How do you know he wasn't drugged like the son?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock pointed to the rolling pin, which was lying in the far corner. "If he'd been drugged, he would have collapsed in on himself and dropped where he stood. The rolling pin would have been beside him. Instead, he was hit in the back of the head, which sent him sprawling out horizontally and the pin flew out of his hands and landed in the corner."

Sherlock moved to the front of the hall by the front door with the intention of looking for fibers that might have fallen from clothing or minute blood evidence. Instead, a very faint scent in the air stopped him in his tracks as he lowered himself to the floor. He sniffed vigorously, drawing a look from John, but he was too focused to notice. He lifted the slot on the door where the post came through and sniffed again. He stood, threw open the door, and followed the scent out. The outside air—smelling faintly of clean laundry and sunshine—distracted him momentarily, but then he felt the scent crawl back into his olfactory passage and tease him again. He knelt at the top of the stairs and looked—ahhh…there it was!

John was standing in the doorway, watching Sherlock remove a little kit from his jacket pocket. He used a tiny little brush to sweep something off the stairs and into a small plastic bag. Sherlock sealed the bag and stood, putting his tools back into the case. He held the bag aloft with a triumphant look on his face.

"What have you got there?" John asked.

"The key to solving the kidnapping, John," Sherlock answered. "Fetch Lestrade, I need to go to the next scene."

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The rest of the morning progressed in this manner, with Lestrade taking them to the crime scenes and Sherlock picking up trace evidence that no one else even thought to look for. Lestrade dropped them off at Bart's so they could use the lab, but the inspector followed them inside, deciding that waiting for Sherlock to provide an explanation wasn't going to cut it today. The man knew something—hell, he probably knew everything—but was waiting for the right time to present his findings with the typical flair of the dramatic.

Sherlock immediately went to work with the microscope, asking John to fetch certain supplies from the cupboards. He was aware of Lestrade's solid form standing near him but didn't feel like indulging him. But as he felt Lestrade's firm hand on his shoulder, Sherlock sighed. Apparently indulgence was not an option at this junction.

"Right, Sherlock, what do you know? I've worked with you long enough to recognize that look. You're like a bloodhound that's caught the scent."

Sherlock grinned a wicked grin. "How appropriate that you should use that particular analogy, Lestrade." He picked up the three little bags lying on the table beside him and held them up. "As you know, I am familiar with 243 different types of cigarette and cigar ashes and I am perfectly capable of deducing the brand based on the fluffiness, flakiness, density, color, and smell of the ashes. In each of the crime scenes, I recognized a very familiar scent in the air and was able to find these ashes to corroborate the smell."

"But how does that help us find the missing ministers?" John asked.

"Smell is the most powerful memory trigger," Sherlock said, "and I recognize the smell of this particular cigar anywhere. It can only belong to one man in all of England."

Lestrade scoffed. "You're telling me you know who it is because of a tiny pile of cigar ashes? Really, Sherlock…" Lestrade scrubbed a hand over his eyes. "How is that possible?"

"This particular blend of tobacco is unique and made specifically for this person by a company in the West Indies. I recognize it because I once spent two weeks as his prisoner and I became…very familiar with the smell."

"Prisoner?" John queried. "Who is it then?"

Sherlock folded his arms over his chest. "Rupert Frederickson. Simply put, he's a modern pirate, smuggler, thief, and…I believe he prefers the term 'interrogation expert'."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "Interrogation expert?"

Sherlock's eyes grew colder and his lips thinned. "Rupert Frederickson is uniquely skilled at performing acts of torture."

The silence in the room was deafening. Lestrade's face had paled. John was staring at Sherlock like he'd never seen the man before. Sherlock was staring at the opposite wall, his mind a million miles away.

"So!" Sherlock said, breaking their reverie. "Let's go to work then, shall we?"

Lestrade pulled out his mobile. "I'll have all my teams on the lookout for this Frederickson character." He began to dial a number.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Sherlock said as he began preparing a slide.

"What are you on about?" Lestrade asked. "I have to call this in, we have to save those people."

"And I am telling you from experience that if you call this in and get everyone buzzing with the name Rupert Frederickson, we will neither find him nor the missing ministers. Frederickson values his lifestyle too much to risk it. If he hears that you're looking for him, we'll not find him and instead of live ministers we'll find dead ones."

"Well then what in blazes are we supposed to do?!" Lestrade yelled.

Sherlock blinked innocently and lifted the small glass slide between them. "I'm going to tell you where he is. One of our kidnappers didn't wipe his feet. The composition of the dirt should be able to tell me where they're located." With that, Sherlock turned to the microscope and Lestrade threw up his hands and stalked out the door.

**A/N: My knowledge of the British government (the real one, not the one with a penchant for dark umbrellas) is a little limited. I've done research, but I'm on the other side of the pond, so if I've inadvertently misused a term or something in relation to Ministers and Parliament and the like...please let me know! (The same applies if any of you happen to have a deep knowledge of international affairs and I've committed a horrible faux pas with the plot.)**


	10. Fish

**Warning: Mentions of numerous sharp objects with the intent to torture. Brief mention of the torture itself, nothing graphic. **

Ch. 10: Fish

Oliver Ashburne was first aware of his tongue. It felt like someone had wrapped the organ in Velcro…it felt slow and sticky. He rolled his tongue around, trying to find saliva to wet it down, but he seemed to be out of that. He slowly blinked open his eyes, wincing as the movement seemed to send a shock of pain into his head. Oh. His head. Oliver blinked back tears as a dull roar came into his ears and the full thudding pain settled in his head. He forced his eyes open again and tried to look at where he was.

The room around him was dim and the walls made out of coarse stone. A bare bulb swung from the high ceiling. Oliver glanced down and realized that he was strapped to a table that was tilted up at an angle. He tried to move his hands and legs, but all of his appendages seemed to be tied down. His olfactory senses came back to him and he smelled…fish and mold, among other things. There was a faint sound like trickling water coming into his right ear. Turning his head gingerly, he noticed two things. First, there was a steady stream of water flowing from ceiling to floor on the wall to his right. Second, there was another man beside him, strapped to a table in the very same manner that he was.

Oliver swallowed as recognition slapped him in the face. It was Henry…Henry Newton. They worked together. Oliver tried to say Henry's name, but his tongue refused to cooperate. He coughed weakly, trying to get his vocal cords to start up. That's when he heard a groan…but it was coming from his left. He turned his head in the other direction and saw another person on his left, but this time a woman. Oh gods… Juliana. Oliver's heart sank.

Juliana groaned as she felt a throbbing pain erupt in the middle of her skull. There were twinkling little black stars in her vision and she closed her eyes to try to steady them and get the sand out of her head. Her tongue felt thick and fuzzy and she found it hard to swallow. She felt like she could just go back to sleep when she heard a strangled voice say, "Juliana?"

She looked to her right to find Oliver Ashburne there, strapped to a table much in the same way that she seemed to be. "Oliver?" she called, her voice dull and raspy. Before Oliver or Juliana could say anymore, the door at the far end of the cold, stone room creaked open and a tall, broad man walked in. There was a lighted cigar in his mouth, the sickly sweet scent of the tobacco filling the room quickly. He was carrying a large, black duffel bag in his hand.

The man crossed the room and set the bag on a silver rolling cart that was placed directly in front of Oliver's table. The man opened it unhurriedly, taking out several items and humming an aria from "Le nozze de Figaro" all the while. Oliver didn't really panic until he saw the surgical tools unroll from a small kit.

"What do you want with us?" he asked, fighting to make his voice less wispy. The man didn't answer, but instead unrolled a white towel and proceeded to unpack a number of things that made Oliver's head swim and his stomach to drop like a rock. The blades ranged in length from the size of a man's palm to one unearthly cruel-looking machete. Next came a set of jumper cables, followed by a coiled length of rope. The razor blades followed and the row of surgical tools were accompanied by gleaming dental picks. Juliana whimpered and Oliver saw the tears rolling down her face.

"What are you going to do to us?" Oliver asked again. His voice was a mere whisper, but he didn't care. He only saw what he knew to be the end of his life.

The man smiled and walked over to Oliver's table. He removed the cigar from his mouth and leaned over to talk directly in Oliver's ear. "I'm going to have some fun." The man smiled again, but Oliver was only aware of the sound of sizzling flesh and the burning pain of the man's cigar being thrust into the center of his bare chest.

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"John!"

John jerked back into awareness as Sherlock's sharp voice cut through his train of thought like a knife. He looked over at the thin man who was currently bent like a question mark over the microscope. John stood from his chair and walked over to Sherlock's side.

"You rang?" John teased. Sherlock looked up and shot him a look of disdain. He then backed away from the device and nodded his head at it.

"Look at this and tell me what you see."

John frowned, but obliged his partner and stared into the eyepiece. The magnified object that looked back at him was papery thin, iridescent, and shot through with tiny, vein-like filaments. As he looked harder at the…thing, he was conscious of Sherlock's voice in his ear.

"It resembles the anatomy of a butterfly's wing, but the texture is all wrong. Nor does it fit in with any mineral composition that matches the others I've found in the sample. There's sand, a tiny bit of gravel, a chalky-clay, and some sort of vegetation."

John backed away from the microscope while shrugging his shoulders. "I'm not sure what it is either, Sherlock. I would have guessed an insect's wing as well, but if you say that's not what it is…"

"It's not," Sherlock said, thumping his fists together. He dragged his fingers through his unruly curls and exhaled loudly. "But what is it, John! The answer is right there, it has to be! It's looking us in the face but I can't see it."

John was prevented from answering when Molly walked in with a white paper bag in her hands.

"Hello!" she called. "I was, uh, just out getting some lunch and I thought you might enjoy something to eat. I hope fish and chips are okay…"

The lightning bolt hit John and Sherlock at the same time. They stared at Molly, who almost began to back away slowly, and then turned to stare at each other. There was 6.4 seconds of silence and stillness before both men erupted into movement. John grabbed both of their coats and Sherlock grabbed the bag from Molly's hands. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to her cheek with a loud smack and then ran out the door with John, who was shouting "Thank you, Molly!" Molly stood in the middle of the lab for another 8.7 seconds with a completely flabbergasted look on her face.

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Lestrade started as a greasy bag of what smelled like fish and chips landed on the desk right in front of his face. He looked up, one eyebrow quirked in question. Sherlock was standing in the doorway with a triumphant grin on his face. John was behind him and there was a determined look in his eye that gave Lestrade a little hope.

"Well?" Lestrade asked.

"Summon the king's horses, Lestrade. I know where to go." Sherlock's confidence was brimming over and leaking into the nooks of the room.

Lestrade stood and grabbed his coat. "Where are we going?"

"Warehouse district by the Thames," John said. He gave Lestrade an address and Lestrade sent it off in a text to his sergeants.

As they bundled into the car, Lestrade asked, "How'd you find it?"

Sherlock's grin in the rearview mirror was victorious. "Where else in London will you find a mud composed of sand, gravel, chalky-clay, algae, and fish scales?"

Lestrade shook his head. "But how'd you narrow it down to the specific location? The warehouse district isn't exactly small you know."

"My sources tell me that an unregistered black van came to that address around 3:30 this morning. One of them saw a man matching Frederickson's description."

"Your sources?" Lestrade asked.

"Homeless network," John clarified.

Lestrade shook his head but pressed the accelerator harder with his foot.


	11. Interference

**Warning: Angst enough to fill a swimming pool (no pun intended). Mentions of torture and some violence. Nothing graphic**

Ch. 11: Interference

Juliana Smith had never wished for her death. She had been living a comfortable life marked by a successful career and a supportive circle of family and friends. She was happy, healthy, and had been considering starting a family with her husband. But now, as she lay on a cold table in the sodden basement in the middle of who-knows-where with her body at the brink of oblivion, she had never prayed harder for death. Death would be much more preferable over this.

Oliver Ashburne felt as if every nerve ending in his body was on fire. In fact…maybe they were…he'd lost the ability to know and care about an hour ago. Or maybe it was just ten minutes ago. Time seemed so irrelevant. He didn't even bother to look anymore…he didn't care what sort of instrument the man brought over next. At one point, he thought he'd lost the ability to feel pain. But as the next blade whispered through his skin, Oliver found it again.

Henry Newton had never woken up.

Rupert Frederickson allowed the sweet restrains of yet another beautiful aria to swell through his soul as the music poured out of a small set of speakers on the table behind him. 'Il Barbieri di Sevilla' was one of his absolute favorites. If there were two things that Rupert enjoyed in life, they were opera and control. In fact, his desire for control was probably what spurred his love of opera…he was always so envious of those men and women who had such marvelous control over their voices and such command of their art. Ah! It was perfect.

He heated the blade of the hunting knife in the small flame of the lighter. He knew the small flame wouldn't get the blade to that oh-so attractive shade of cherry-red that he loved so much, but…there was only so much he could do when he was mobile like this. He blew on the tip of the blade and glanced between the man and the woman lying in front of him. He did so enjoy the woman's squeals and cries, but there was something so hilarious about the man's curses that Rupert took a few steps to his side.

The man didn't even look at him anymore. Rupert frowned. After all, every performer loves an audience. He flicked the blade in front of the man's eyes, pressing the tip lightly to the skin between his brows. The skin hissed a little and the man's eyes widened, but Rupert pulled it away quickly. Now he had his attention.

"That's a good lad," Rupert said, his basso profundo voice rumbling. He paused to take a hit off the cigar in the ashtray on the table. He exhaled, covering them both in a swirl of sweet smoke. Rupert smiled down at the man and brought the blade up, searching for a blank spot of the canvas in front of him.

He had the knife paused over the man's right pectoral when he heard the pitter-patter of gunfire.

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John slammed into the wall, Sherlock's lanky body coming in right beside him. They were both gasping for breath, the adrenaline racing through their blood and their pupils dilated slightly in fear and excitement. On the other side of the open door, Lestrade was also pressed against the wall. His breathing was a little shallower, and when John looked over he was startled to see blood oozing from the man's shoulder. John growled, took three deep breaths, and then poked his head into the doorway. Four shots bit at the walls around him, but his bullets fired through the air and lodged themselves in the gunman's throat.

A relative silence began to ring through the space. There was a distant moan coming from down the hallway where another officer had been clipped, but other than the sound of their collective heavy breathing, there was nothing. It would appear that all the gunmen had been taken, shot, or disappeared. John handed his gun to Sherlock just in case, and the man took it as John crawled over to Lestrade. He began poking at the detective inspector's shoulder.

"I'm fine, John," the man gasped. "Really, it's just a graze, I'm okay."

John checked it anyway. The man was right, it was just a graze, but it was a little deep. "It'll need stitching, Greg."

"Well unless you're going to do it now, get off and let's find the ministers," Lestrade said bitingly. John grunted but backed off and stood, taking his gun back from Sherlock. The tall man darted through the open door and dashed down the hallway. John and Lestrade followed behind him, watching as the man ran down, opening doors as he went.

Sherlock threw open a door and came to a halt as he saw three unconscious people lying at the end of the room, all three strapped to tables and two of them covered in senseless rivulets of blood. He let the door creak open the rest of the way, beckoning for the two men with weapons to hurry along. He let John and Lestrade enter the room and clear it before dashing in himself and running to the tables.

Yes, here they were. Sherlock had to do a double take before he recognized the mangled faces of Juliana Smith and Oliver Ashburne. The third man, Henry Newton was on the last table, but he was clean and free of any wounds. Sherlock's stomach sank as he stepped over and laid a hand on the man's throat. There was no discernible pulse. Sherlock swallowed and nudged John, who had moved behind him. John spun and followed Sherlock's eyes to the dead man. John's lips thinned and he checked the man for a pulse as well. John frowned and looked under the man's eyelids for pupil reaction. Nothing. John sighed and walked away.

John had invaded Afghanistan. He'd seen the hellfire of war and enough death and mayhem to last him a lifetime. The adrenaline rush of working with Sherlock Holmes was addictive and John usually didn't mind being around the bodies and such. But this…this was different. He'd seen what he thought was the most malevolent tortures used among the shifting sands in the Middle East, but…he was wrong. He looked at Oliver Ashburne and Juliana Smith and he wondered—not for the first time—how the human body and the human psyche could endure so much pain and still function. It seemed almost needlessly cruel.

Under Lestrade's gentle ministrations, Juliana Smith was reviving, slowly but surely. Lestrade had covered her naked torso with his coat and John was using a swath of cloth bandages to gently wipe away some of the blood off her face. Sherlock positioned himself so that when she opened her eyes, his were the first thing she saw. His gaze was intense but calm and quiet. John watched his partner carefully.

"Mrs. Smith?" Sherlock murmured. "Juliana…please, I need you to listen to me." Sherlock cooed gently as the woman began to whimper. John fought the urge to stare at him. "Juliana, I know it hurts. I know it hurts, and I'm sorry. Dr. Watson is going to help you as much as he can, but I need you to tell me. Where did the man go? Where did he go, Juliana?"

Juliana Smith swallowed hard and a gasping breath left her throat. A single word managed to break out from her desperate vocal cords. "Left."

Sherlock took off like a shot, leaving John in the dust to care for the injured woman. John felt his mind almost rip in two as he looked between the departing detective and the two injured people in the room. Lestrade saw this small motion and took off after Sherlock without another word. John sighed and got back to the injured ministers, quickly taking command of the medics who had just come in to the room.

Sherlock and Lestrade bolted down the hallway and into a stairwell. Sherlock screeched to a halt for just a moment before he heard Lestrade take a deep inhale through his nose. Sherlock smelled too, and the two men followed the smell of the cigar smoke down the stairs and out to a small, wooden dock. They looked everywhere, but there was no sign of Rupert Frederickson anywhere. In the distance, Sherlock thought he heard the small whine of a motorboat. He pointed it out to Lestrade, who was already dialing a number on his mobile.

Sherlock kicked a rock into the river. _Damn!_

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When Sherlock and Lestrade came back into the room, John was helping one of the medics settle Henry Newton's body on the stretcher. In the back of Sherlock's mind, he wondered who was going to tell the son that his father had died. If Sherlock had been more sentimental, he might have said that it wasn't fair for the boy to have lost two parents, especially so close to one another. But Sherlock Holmes knew better than anyone that life was anything but fair.

He watched John as the shorter man moved about the room, checking on both the medics and the patients and Sherlock suddenly had a vision of a different John Watson, a Watson wearing desert fatigues and a helmet, shouting orders in the blinding heat of both the desert and the battle raging around him and his men. This Watson still bled through into his John Watson, as it was now as the army doctor's presence commanded the room. This brought Sherlock both pride and pain. His Dr. John Watson was not a force to be reckoned with. But John had also left the battlefields of Afghanistan only to be swept into another battlefield in London. Only this time, the battlefield belonged to one Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock was so wrapped in his thoughts that he didn't notice the man himself sidle up to him and look him in the eye. John placed a warm hand on his arm, which caused Sherlock to shake his head and stare down into his partner's endless blue eyes. John's eyes asked the question. Sherlock shook his head no, and John swore softly.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade asked from across the room. Sherlock and John both looked and I swear to you their hearts dropped in tandem like an Acme anvil on Wile E. Coyote. The thunk was almost audible.

Lestrade held a creamy white card in one gloved hand. His face was pale. Sherlock crossed the room in three long strides and snatched it in his leather-gloved hand.

_Really, Mr. Holmes, you must learn not to interfere so much._

_You wouldn't want to make a nuisance of yourself. _

The violet ink seemed to burn on the soft, white paper. The implications couldn't be any clearer.

The game was beginning. The queen had made her move. They had blocked her play.

What was coming next?


	12. True Objectives

Ch. 12: True Objectives

As the small boat sped up the Thames, the woman called Persephone dug out her mobile and placed a call. As it rang, she held the phone to her ear with her shoulder as she buttoned her coat against the chilly spray and the biting wind. She finally heard the click at the other end and the crystalline voice answered.

**Yes?**

_**We were cut a bit short**_**.**

**What happened?**

_**Holmes. What else? **_

**Did you extract the information?**

_**Enough of it. **_

**Thank heavens for small miracles.**

_**Yes, ma'am. **_

**Hurry back. We've got work to do. You can't be missed.**

_**Yes, ma'am. Rupert?**_

**Oh….bring him too. I'm not quite finished with him. **

_**Yes ma'am. ETA seven minutes. **_

**Thank you, Persephone. –**click**—**

Persephone clicked the end button on her mobile and slipped it back in her pocket as Rupert was aligning the boat with the rickety wooden dock. She eyed the small silver sedan waiting for them and breathed a sigh of relief. They had called her a fool for wanting a backup plan. There was no way that anyone would ever find them, they said. Persephone snorted. She'd been in this game long enough to know better. Always have a plan B and never assume your infallibility. She'd been watching the great Holmes at work enough to know that his brilliance and his arrogance were not to be underestimated.

Persephone dug the keys to the sedan out of her pocket and pressed the button to unlock it. Rupert had begun to slink off to the sleek street bike that was propped up nearby, but she gave a short whistle through her teeth and nodded her head at the sedan. He raised his eyebrows at her and she stared back. Rupert looked around a little, then shook his head and walked over to the passenger side of the small car. Persephone started the car and took them into the city.

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After the woman had ended her call with Persephone, she had stared at the sleek mobile in her hands for a few moments. She took three long, deep breaths before she turned on her heel and threw the mobile as hard as she could into the sofa across the room. It landed in the cushions with a soft whump and the woman bared her teeth in aggravation. Holmes. Always Holmes. Why was it never anyone or anything other than Sherlock Holmes and his bloody little band of ducklings following him around like some trained circus act?

It had been weeks since she had made the first move in taking care of that sodding Estonian idiot. Her plans had been in motion since then and damn it all if Sherlock Holmes wasn't at the end of almost every single one. She shook her head. Jim Moriarty never seemed to have this kind of bad luck. If only the idiot had _actually_ managed to take out Sherlock Holmes…there wouldn't be any of this nonsense. But no! The bastard had gone and outsmarted him! But didn't that just blow up his ego… so typical. He was going to ruin everything. Sherlock bloody Holmes was just… he was the most….GAH!

The woman sniffed at her own inability to form cohesive thoughts. She took a moment, straightened her navy blazer, smoothed her hair, and cleared her throat. Wasn't her yoga instructor always telling her that she was carrying around too much pent-up anger and that it was affecting her chi? The woman snorted. Her yoga instructor could shove chi up her…

The door to the room clicked open and Persephone entered the room on silent feet and the woman took a minute to appreciate the way her belted black trench coat accentuated her healthy waistline. It was a splendid fashion choice and the woman could see that it was having the desired effect in the way that Rupert was trying to avoid looking but he couldn't…quite…help it. The woman shook her head minutely. Men. So easily persuaded with just the right accessories. It was almost unfair.

Persephone strode up to the woman's side and placed a small electronic device into her outstretched hand. The woman took it and glanced at it before flicking her eyes back up to Persephone. In the glow of the lamplight, Persephone's dark brown waves looked like a black waterfall cascading down from her head to her shoulders. The woman raised her eyebrow at Persephone, whose only reaction was to nod back, her shoulders relaxing slightly.

"It's done, then?" the woman asked.

"Yes ma'am," Persephone answered. "Mr. Holmes did arrive at the scene with his doctor and his pals from Scotland Yard, but we had already gotten most of the information."

"Did you leave my note?"

Persephone nodded. "You think it'll find the right hands?"

The woman smiled wickedly. "I have no doubt of it."

Persephone nodded once more, dropping her gaze to the slim, silver watch that adorned her left wrist. She looked back up at the woman.

"Go," the woman said. "Don't be late."

Persephone inclined her head a little more deeply to the woman before backing away and striding out the door without so much as a backwards glance. The woman watched her go and then turned her attention to the man in the room, who had been quietly sitting on the sofa. He had poured himself a snifter of cognac from the decanter on the table and was sipping it with muted pleasure. He looked around as the woman coughed gently to get his attention. He stood and joined her near the tall window.

"Your services were much appreciated, Mr. Frederickson," the woman said coolly, not meaning a word of it. She didn't really feel the need for gratitude towards this man, but…that's how business was done.

"Pleasure was all mine, V," the man said as he swilled the cognac in the glass, giving her a sickening smile. The woman's stomach turned at his casual use of the despicable nickname. If he wasn't already contracted for the next little project she had in mind… she'd slit his throat right here with one of his own tools.

He didn't seem to notice her obvious disapproval, because he launched right into his question without hesitation. "Will you contact me before the next contract is scheduled to begin?"

At this, the woman offered him a venomous smile and laughed a little. "Actually, Mr. Frederickson, I was hoping to add another clause to your contract, starting immediately." The man raised his eyebrow at her.

000000000000

Mycroft Holmes strode down the long hallway of the hospital ward until he saw the bench upon which his younger brother and John were reclining. Sherlock was sitting upright, but there was a slump to his posture that Mycroft recognized as defeat. The man's blue-grey eyes were almost glazed over in thought, the fingers of his right hand ticking against the seam of his trousers. Sherlock's left hand was wrapped around John's shoulders. The man in question was leaning into his partner, the silvery-blonde head resting upon a shoulder, his hands engaged in typing a text on his phone.

Mycroft approached the two men, and I think it was a testament to their shared rise in maturity and mutual respect for each other that no one made any comments when Mycroft seated himself next to Sherlock on the bench and neither John nor Sherlock made an effort to move away. John did twist a little so he could look at the elder Holmes and give him a nod of greeting. The three men—the two Holmes and one Watson—sat there in silence for a few moments.

It was then that Sherlock removed a small plastic bag from the pocket of his coat and handed it to Mycroft. John heard the rustling of the package and sat up. Mycroft didn't miss the anxious gleam in his eyes. He turned the package over in his hands, seeing the creamy white card with the purple ink on the inside. He read the words once…twice…three times, just to make sure. He felt a slow burn begin in the tips of his very expensive shoes and work its way up to the top of his head, steam exuding from every pore. The only thing he let show was a small sigh that said everything and nothing at the same time.

"Three ministers," Sherlock said. "None of them have anything that ties them together in any particular way other than the fact that they worked in the same building together. They didn't necessarily have the same political views or moral standpoints, not exactly anyway. Newton was a widower, Ashburne single, and Smith married. Two males, one female, all living in different parts of London and all with different tastes in just about everything. There's nothing obvious to tell us why these three were chosen out of all the ministers in the House." Sherlock looked at Mycroft pointedly.

Mycroft stared back. "Your point being, Sherlock?"

"Oh come off it, Mycroft," John said blearily, a small yawn wracking his mouth. "The last time we found a card like this, your friend—another politician—had been murdered and the only reasonable explanation we had was the secret naval treaty." John had lowered his voice conspiratorially.

Mycroft stared at the doctor with a raised eyebrow. "Your point, Dr. Watson?"

"Mycroft," Sherlock said, his voice laced with impatience. "If these three knew about the treaty as well, we're facing a potential international crime here. A treaty like that would be worth a fortune in blackmail and a woman like this would play you and everyone else for everything you've got." He paused as Mycroft turned to stare at him with an absolutely unreadable expression on his face. Sherlock's voice softened only minimally. "Ashburne and Smith were cruelly tortured. Newton died as a result of his head injury. Andrus died. I've no doubt that this woman's been the backer behind every burglary, murder, and other crime that I've solved with Scotland Yard in the past few weeks. We need to discover her true objectives before…" Sherlock paused and looked at John. "Before we have nothing left but drastic measures."

Mycroft exhaled sharply. "This woman is no Moriarty, brother."

Sherlock's gaze was fire and ice. "What makes you so sure, brother?"


	13. Big Red Button

Ch. 13: Big Red Button

John watched the silent exchange happen between the Holmes brothers like a tennis match. There were no audible words, but John could practically see the things they didn't say flying between them in a heated conversation of raised eyebrows, lip twitches, nose flares, and burning eyes. Sometimes these two were just impossible…the unstoppable force and the immovable object. If you could somehow make the Holmes ego into an actual, tangible element, John believed that you could make forcefields strong enough to deflect nuclear missiles.

He shook his head and stood up, removing his hand from Sherlock's (who had opted for taking it when John had sat up and removed his shoulders from Sherlock's grasp). Sherlock blinked, breaking the spell between him and Mycroft, looking up at John with questioning eyes. John leaned down and kissed the man's forehead lightly.

"I'll be back," he said. He had started to walk away when he heard Sherlock call out.

"Where are you going?"

John chuckled softly. "The loo, Sherlock. I'll be back."

Sherlock watched his army doctor drift off down the hallway before turning his attention back to his elder brother. He watched Mycroft's already thin lips press even tighter together, a white scar slashed across his long face. There was a time, Sherlock thought, that he would have obeyed Mycroft's desire for privacy and secrets. But that time had passed almost twenty-five years ago. Whatever rift had driven the Holmes brothers apart was also now ironically bringing them back together. Their mutual ability to read each other and their inability to understand personal boundaries made secrets damn near impossible.

Sherlock saw the connections as easily as he saw everything else. There had been two people murdered, two people tortured, and numerous other small crimes that had happened in the past three weeks and they all seemed to revolve around one common axis: Mycroft. Well, Mycroft and whatever dark secrets were contained in the mysterious naval treaty. Sherlock's mind craved the adventure of the hunt, but as they were discovering more and more about this mysterious female criminal mastermind, Sherlock felt something…different. There was, of course, the familiar feeling of adrenaline that came with new puzzles and new data for his mind to chew on. The rush was intoxicating and Sherlock needed it like he needed oxygen to breathe. However, there was a small rock that seemed to be lodged somewhere near the center of his chest, and he suspected largely that it was a ball of…sentiment…that he felt for his elder brother.

Sentiment. Feelings. Those words in tandem with the surname Holmes seemed almost laughable, but there they were. Sherlock had the nagging suspicion that they were there due to the heady influence of a particular army doctor who shall remain nameless. The doctor was slowly beginning to show Sherlock how a person could live with emotions without sacrificing the objectivity that he so desperately needed. That process, it would seem, had unearthed some of the feelings that Sherlock had harbored for Mycroft when they were young children. It was outrageous, and Sherlock almost sniffed at the unfairness of it all, but there it was all the same…the muted sense of admiration and appreciation, the fear of loss, the…sentiment of it all…

Mycroft's deductive abilities were stronger than Sherlock's and they both knew it. So even though the average passerby might have only observed two stone-faced men sitting on the bench that evening, Mycroft saw the flood of sentiment fill his brother's face, his eyes in particular. Mycroft knew that John Watson had a tremendous impact on Sherlock's life, and it would seem that the evidence was there in Sherlock's eyes.

The Holmes brothers had been raised to believe that caring was not an advantage, and in a way it wasn't. Caring brought about vulnerabilities that were weaknesses in the eyes of your enemies. But as Mycroft and Sherlock watched each other without saying a word, I believe that the two of them began to question their dogma. Perhaps vulnerability was not a weakness, but instead a strength. A quote from the American revolutionary Martin Luther King crossed into Mycroft's mind; 'We must learn to live together as brothers or we will perish together as fools.' It was truer for the Holmes brothers than it was for most.

0000000000

John was on his way out of the loo when his phone buzzed. He pulled out the thin mobile and clicked open the text message.

**I need you to sign something for me. Meet me downstairs? GL**

John tilted his head in puzzlement. He was fairly certain that he'd already signed everything that needed to be signed when they'd left the crime scene to come to the hospital. Then again, John had been thoroughly distracted by the mutilated bodies of the ministers and he'd had no doubts that he'd gone into Captain Watson mode, the army doctor in him completely focused on the wounded. He didn't actually recall signing anything…maybe he had missed something. He shrugged. It wouldn't take long to sign a few documents.

**Okay. Need Sherlock as well? JW**

**No, we've got all of his paperwork. Shocking, I know. GL**

John snorted in amusement and confirmed the meeting place. Maybe Greg wouldn't be opposed to stepping out to a pub for a pint or two… surely the both of them could use it after the day they'd just had. He sent Greg another message.

**Fancy a pint after this? JW**

**God yes. GL**

John smiled. Detective Inspector Lestrade was a man after his own heart. After Sherlock had taken the fall and everyone believed him to be dead, Greg and John had found solace in each other's company, usually just a few pints after work, sometimes just the two of them, sometimes with Mike Stamford and even once with Mycroft Holmes (they had pictures to prove it). It had been nice. They never talked about it…not out loud, anyway. John was grieving for the loss of his friend and his…well, the man he loved, of all things. Lestrade was dealing with an immense amount of guilt over the loss of the young man. He blamed himself and John could tell. No words were ever needed or desired. Instead, they drowned their sorrows in amber liquid and toasted to each other and the memory of Sherlock Holmes.

John walked out of the reception area and saw Greg standing by his car, a folder in one hand and coffee in another. John sent off a message to Sherlock to let him know where he was going.

**Lestrade needed me to sign some papers. Going to grab a pint after. JW **

John waited for a response but it didn't come. The bloody man was probably still engaged in a staring contest with Mycroft.

**No matter how hard you try, you cannot blow up Mycroft's head with your brain, Sherlock. JW**

**I know that, John. SH**

**Just checking. I'll be home later. JW**

**Yes, yes. Go on. SH**

John shook his head as he approached Lestrade. The man nodded his head in greeting and gave John a smile. John smiled back and said, "You rang?"

Lestrade laughed. "What say we head off for that pint now? You can sign these there." He pushed a button and unlocked the doors of his car. John grinned and walked around to the passenger side, saying, "Sounds great to me. After the day we've had…" Lestrade nodded grimly in agreement as he slid in to his car.

John hopped into the man's sedan and closed the door. The first thing that he was aware of was the overpowering sickly-sweet stench of a cigar. He coughed and turned to look at Lestrade, who was gripping the steering wheel tightly, his face set in a grim mask. He turned his eyes to John, and John was startled to see fear there in the man's eyes.

"You might want to put on a seatbelt, Dr. Watson," a deep, bass voice rumbled. John started as another man appeared out of the shadows in the backseat of the car. He reached for his weapon, but then he heard the distinct sound of a gun being cocked. The dark barrel of a handgun appeared at the back of Lestrade's head and John raised his hands instinctively. He felt his gut flood with fear, as if someone had pushed a big red panic button in his brain.

"That's better," the man said. "Now I'd like you to take your weapon, Dr. Watson, and just toss it outside like a good lad." John's lips thinned into a hard line, but he saw Lestrade shoot him a look out of the corner of his eye. John reached one hand into the waistband of his jeans and removed the Browning. He opened the car door and flung it outside, slamming the door shut behind him. He turned back to face Lestrade and the man…the man John was guessing had to be this Rupert Frederickson.

The man removed the handgun from the back of Lestrade's head and pointed it at John. John swallowed and Lestrade shot him another look. "Now, Detective Inspector," Frederickson said. "Let's go for a drive, shall we? Start the car."

Lestrade didn't move. Frederickson slid further up into the front of the car and pressed the barrel of the gun into John's cheek. To John's credit, he didn't flinch even though his heart was racing at a million miles per hour. "Detective Inspector?" the man said again.

Lestrade stared at the steering wheel in his hands and took a long, measured sigh. He closed his eyes slowly and turned over the keys in the ignition. "Sorry, John," he muttered. He put the car in gear and left the hospital, the man in the backseat giving him directions. The gun never left John's face.

In his mind, John was pleading with deities he didn't even believe in.

In his mind, Lestrade was pushing the big red panic button and begging for forgiveness.

00000000000000

"But Mycroft, how can you be sure that the treaty is—''' Sherlock cut off mid-sentence, a confused gleam entering his blue-grey eyes and a slight frown creasing the skin between his eyebrows.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft questioned.

"We already signed everything," Sherlock said.

Mycroft frowned. "What are you talking about?"

Sherlock raised his phone, threads of data streaming through his head. "John texted me and said that Lestrade needed him to sign a few papers and then they were going out for a pint."

"So?" Mycroft failed to see what was bothering Sherlock about that.

"So," Sherlock said, "we already signed everything at the crime scene, both John and I. I know we did. Lestrade had told us we could go home, but John wanted to come here with the ministers." Sherlock stood up and pulled out his mobile.

Mycroft stood as well. "I fail to see why this is of concern to you."

Sherlock had the mobile pressed to his ear and he was slowly shaking his head. Both John and Lestrade's mobiles had gone straight to voicemail. "Neither one of them has their phone turned on." A little burble of something akin to anxiety was beginning to bloom inside of Sherlock. It was probably nothing, but the behavior was a little too out of character for John and Lestrade. And Sherlock…well, he had an interest in following up on things of that sort. As such, the thin man was already walking away in the same direction John had taken.

Mycroft sighed and followed his brother downstairs and out into the parking lot. Neither the two men nor Lestrade's sedan were to be found. Sherlock began walking around the space, seeking clues. Mycroft watched him, still convinced that he was being paranoid. Although, Mycroft thought, it wasn't paranoia if they were really out to get you.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and Mycroft watched the younger man's back stiffen like a pointer hound on a trail. He bent over and picked something off of the ground as Mycroft took a few more steps in his direction.

Sherlock turned to face Mycroft, John's Browning handgun dangling from his gloved fingertips. In the pale light of the streetlamps, Mycroft could see that Sherlock's already pale face had gone a shade whiter. He flashed his elder brother a look, but Mycroft already had his mobile out and was placing the call.

In his head, Sherlock pressed the big red panic button in his brain. _John_. _Lestrade_.


	14. Interlude: Sands of Afghanistan

**Warning: Mentions of violence/torture ahead.**

Interlude: Sands of Afghanistan

John ducked instinctively as a blast expanded outwards, shredding the air with chunks of rock, metal, and cascades of hot sand. The concussive boom thundered inside his chest and rattled his brain inside his head. He blinked his eyes and shook his head, looking around for the rest of his company. John frowned as no one appeared around the short walls made of dried clay. He could clearly hear the chatter of gunfire and the muffled explosions all around him, but there was no one in sight. Fear clung to his insides like an oil slick. Where was everyone?

"John!" He heard his name being called, but it was a new voice…a voice he hadn't placed in his company. Also…no one ever called him John. His men called him Captain or Captain Watson. His equals called him Watson. His patients called him Doctor. No one here called him John. He squinted in the bright sunlight, looking around for the source of the call.

Then… he frowned as he saw a man in a dark suit and a tan trenchcoat jogging towards him. The man was tall and tanned, his head covered in silvery hair that was definitely not military regulation. He didn't seem to care that his shiny shoes were being filled with sand as he came up to John. John gripped his rifle tighter in his hands.

"John!" the man said as he came closer. "John."

"Who are you?" John yelled.

"John!" the man called again, John's question apparently unheard.

John opened his mouth to respond, but instead he let out a gasp as a searing pain cut across his chest. He looked down to see that his fatigues had been sliced open right below his left nipple and a thin line of blood was welling up and spilling over on to his chest. He gaped at the wound and his brain reeled at the impossibility. He let out another cry as another sharp pain ripped up the right side of his abdomen from his ribs to his hip. This one was deeper and the blood oozing out was a darker crimson. John dropped his rifle and sunk into the sand, one hand clasped to his side and one reaching for his medkit.

"John!" John tore his gaze upwards as another slash appeared under his collarbone. The man with silver hair was rippling like a mirage, but he was slowly morphing into someone else. John blinked harder in an effort to make himself focus. Another slash to the other collarbone.

The mirage settled and a name slipped from John's lips. "Sherlock…" John's hallucination of the tall, pale man just blinked at him. John whimpered as another deep slash opened, this time on his thigh. John just watched the red liquid seep from his body and stain the yellow sand around him. He looked back up at the Sherlock-mirage. "Please, Sherlock," he begged. "Make it stop."

The mirage sneered at him. "The soldier begs," it said, the baritone voice hazy and echoing slightly, like it was coming out of a speaker. The illusion swirled as it turned away and walked off into the horizon, eventually becoming one with the yellow of the sand and the blue of the sky. John felt tiny slices open up on the palm of his hand but he just sank back into the soft sand, not caring for once that the hot, gritty particles were seeping into his uniform. He felt more and more pain shooting into every nerve ending, but John Watson was beginning to find that he really didn't care.


	15. Camaraderie

**Warning: Torture and inflammatory words ahead. Nothing violently graphic, but...it is torture. **

Ch. 14: Camaraderie

Greg Lestrade groaned as he came to, feeling pain in parts of his body he wasn't even aware existed. After the pain, he was next made aware of two things; one, the cold temperature that was seeping through the bare skin of his exposed torso, and two, his arms were stretched over his head and secured with chains that were biting rather painfully into his wrists. He was kneeling on a cold, concrete floor inside of what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse or shed.

He looked to his right and choked on the oxygen flowing into his lungs. John was strung up exactly as he was and also stripped to the waist, but there was a tall man with a glowing cigar standing over John with a handful of exotic and deadly knives clutched in his hand. The man glanced over at Lestrade and gave him a huge wink before turning and slashing at John's chest with one of the knives. John grunted in pain, but was still unconscious.

"John!" Lestrade shouted, his voice papery but adamant. "John! John, please!" John groaned as the man continued to slash away, adding deeper cuts along John's ribs and stomach. Blood was beginning to paint John's torso like a morbid Jackson Pollock painting. Lestrade's heart lurched in his chest and bile rose in his throat when he heard John whimper "Sherlock."

"The soldier begs," the torturer said. Lestrade knew this had to be the Frederickson that they'd been chasing, based on the glowing cigar in his mouth and his dexterity with the sharp tools in his hands.

"You fucking bastard," Lestrade growled. "Leave him alone."

Frederickson stopped and turned to Lestrade, one eyebrow raised in question. Lestrade swallowed hard. The man smiled and walked over to Lestrade's side and bent over to look him in the eye.

"Don't worry, Detective Inspector, your turn is coming." Frederickson smiled at him again before slipping a small blade in between his fingers and punching Lestrade across the cheek. Lestrade gasped in pain as the blade ripped open the skin on his face, leaving a short but deep gash right on his cheekbone. The hot blood began to trickle irritatingly down his face. It was at that point that Lestrade realized that John was awake, because he heard the doctor growl. Lestrade looked over at him and saw John's panicked blue eyes meet his.

"Lestrade," John gasped.

"Watson," Lestrade answered.

Frederickson returned to John and kept slicing away at the man's skin, this time warming the blades in the small flame of his lighter, which caused John's skin to hiss angrily and elicited unearthly gasps of pain from the army doctor. Lestrade shifted uncomfortably, his arms burning, his face screaming in pain, and his stomach churning for John. A sudden thought gripped him.

"John," Lestrade called. "Remember that time Anderson and Sherlock fell into that pond?" He waited until the man's blurry gaze was turned towards him. Frederickson never stopped.

"What?" John wheezed.

"It was that crime scene in Aldershot…Sherlock and Anderson were arguing like they always do. Sherlock tried to trip Anderson on his way back from that scummy pond where the body was, but Anderson had got hold of Sherlock's coat and they both fell in."

Despite the extreme amount of pain he was experiencing, John couldn't help but feel a thread of mirth weave its way through the pain at the memory. He laughed gruffly, the sound squawking through his dry throat.

"Sherlock looked like a drowned cat," John rasped. "Covered in pond scum and mad as a box of frogs."

Lestrade barked out a short laugh. "I thought they were actually going to kill each other that day."

John giggled as much as a man in tremendous pain was able to giggle. He gulped down the laughter as Frederickson left his side and approached Lestrade. Lestrade gulped but didn't look away from Frederickson's evil face. John moaned again.

"John," the detective inspector said, "it's going to be okay." Frederickson pulled out a short, thin knife.

Lestrade had told John it was going to be okay, but this…this was going to hurt.

000000000000

John tried to block the sound of Lestrade's cries of pain from his mind, but he couldn't. He couldn't even turn his head, so instead he watched as his friend's body was slowly being painted with blood just like his own. With his trained doctor's eye, John also took note of the blood seeping down from Lestrade's bruised wrists. He wondered if they burned as much as his did.

As Lestrade took a savage cut along his shoulder blade, the man actually whimpered and John felt his heart sink into his shoes. He felt too much pain to feel panic, but the soldier inside him roared at the knowledge that his comrade was being hurt and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

"Fucking wanker," John growled at Frederickson. "What do you want with us?"

Frederickson didn't turn to look at him as he answered. "Nothing," he replied casually.

"Nothing," John rasped.

"Nothing," Frederickson repeated. "You're just a little prize," he said. "A little reward for my good work. She must have been feeling awfully generous to give me both of you."

"Why don't you go ahead and tell us all about her," John said.

Frederickson laughed, a bass rumble that echoed in the cold space. "Come on, Watson. You didn't think it was going to be that easy, did you?" He turned back to Lestrade and continued to slice away, heating the blades in a way that made John's skin burn with the memory. Lestrade's moan cut into John's ears.

"Lestrade," John grated. "Remember when Sherlock had to dress up like Father Christmas in order to find the serial kidnapper down in central London?"

Lestrade snorted in spite of the searing pains that were crisscrossing every inch of his body. When he spoke, his voice was rough and pitchy. "The damn fake beard got stuck to his face."

John did his best to choke out a laugh for Lestrade's sake. "He was so angry… 'Get this thing off my face, John! Lestrade, stop laughing and get it off, now!'" John did his best to imitate the detective's gruff baritone but it was a weak impersonation. Lestrade heaved out a dry chuckle anyway, but the chuckle quickly turned into a heartbreaking cry of pain as the man received a burning slash on his back.

"Lestrade, it's going to be okay," John whispered. He heard Frederickson snort with amusement.

"Are you two quite finished?" he mocked. Neither man answered him, but the both turned cold glares on him, one a dark, icy blue and the other a fiery hazel green. Frederickson snorted again and removed John's mobile from his coat. He turned it back on, sneering as it immediately lit up and chimed several times.

"Someone's been missing you," he remarked with insincere concern. He laughed and then opened the camera feature. He snapped a picture of the two ragged, bleeding men and sent it off to the great detective. He followed that picture with a text of their address. His directives had been clear; kidnap, rough them up, return them. Not as fun, but…he didn't make the rules. Frederickson put his tools back into his little travel kit and lit up another cigar before exiting the room, slamming the solid metal door with a resounding crash.

"Lestrade," John whispered.

"Watson," Lestrade answered.

Each of them promptly passed out.

**A/N: Ouch! Look at me go. So, I've been trying to battle through some serious writer's block these past few chapters. If there's something that seems...amiss, please let me know. I've read it and reviewed it myself dozens of times, but you are the seekers of truth and strong plot-lines. Thank you, you lovely people!**


	16. Isn't Quite True

**You're all probably wondering why I've called you here today... :) No, seriously...if you've been sticking with this story and reading along and being so incredibly patient...thank you. Thank you from the bottom of my little writer's heart. It absolutely blows my mind to think that people from other continents are reading my words... it's a trippy feeling, no? Thank you and hold on to your butts, cause it's about to get interesting. **

Ch. 15: Isn't Quite True

Sherlock Holmes burst through the rusty metal door of the abandoned shed, a pack of Yarders on his heels with flashlights and drawn weapons. There was commotion everywhere as they squawked into radios, shouted commands, and moved to check every available space. However, all the motion stopped abruptly as everyone eyed the spectacle in the middle of the space.

Greg Lestrade and John Watson were both suspended from metal chains that hung from the low ceiling. Their knees and lower legs were resting on the floor, but their naked torsos and arms were stretched out in positions that absolutely could not be comfortable. Everyone could see their bruised and chafed wrists, but they were more taken aback by the fact that the two men were drenched in a coat of blood that covered nearly every inch of their upper bodies. Sherlock felt the blood drain from his face and behind him he heard Sally Donovan gasp in panic. He turned back to look at her and she looked at him, her dark brown eyes meeting his hazy grey. Wordlessly, they both faced front and moved in tandem, Sherlock heading for John and Donovan for Lestrade.

"The chains," Donovan growled as she looked at Lestrade's hands. The chains were wrapped tight and locked with a brass key lock.

"Got it," Sherlock murmured. He was already at John's lock, picking away at the mechanism. The lock snapped open, and John was released, collapsing into Sherlock's embrace. Sherlock yelled for one of the Yarders to come and take him. Anderson ran up. The two men stared at each other for a brief moment before Anderson gently accepted John's prone body, cradling it while Sherlock moved to release Lestrade. Lestrade gave a muffled grunt when he slumped into Donovan's arms.

The medics raced into the room as Anderson relinquished his grip on Watson and moved over to help Donovan with Lestrade. Sherlock sank to the ground and held his partner as gently as he could, aware that his movements were causing the numerous cuts and slashes on his body to reopen and bleed all over again. Sherlock pressed a hasty kiss to John's temple, whispering in his ear.

"Come on, John…wake up for me, please? We've come, you're safe, Lestrade is safe, everything is over now. Wake up for me John, please."

"Donovan." Everyone froze as they heard Lestrade's creaky voice echo around them. "Anderson. Sherlock." Lestrade's eyes took them all in and he sighed heavily. "About damn time," he said.

Sherlock couldn't resist a small chuckle. "Anderson had to stop and ask for directions," he mocked lightly. Anderson flashed him a glare, but it was softer than normal. Lestrade just groaned…and no one was sure whether it was in amusement or pain.

Something wriggled in Sherlock's grasp. He looked down to see John shifting and twisting in his grip. Sherlock brought his hand up to caress the part of John's face that hadn't been mangled by blades, running his long fingers over the stubble on John's jaw. John's eyes blinked open and he fought to bring the world into focus.

"Sh-sherlock?" the man whispered. Sherlock gasped out a short laugh and pressed his lips very lightly to those of his blogger.

"I'm here," he promised. "We're going to take you home, I promise. As soon as we get you patched up, we'll go home." He whispered the words into John's hair, trying to not only ease John's pain but also to curb the swelling of fear and panic flooding his own brain.

"You…you got the beard off your face," John said, his voice thin but a mite stronger. Sherlock threw a questioning eyebrow at the man cradled in his arms, but he heard Lestrade's gasping chuckle from the litter next to him.

The medics helped Sherlock arrange John on the litter and then carried him out to one of the waiting ambulances. They packed Lestrade into the other one and Sherlock, Donovan, and Anderson climbed into their respective ambulances to travel to the hospital. Sherlock checked his mobile. It was 3:00 in the morning. John had been missing for three hours. Three hours felt like just a blip in the grand scheme of things…just a brief moment in time… but for Sherlock Holmes, those three hours had stretched into an eternity.

It was not something he ever cared to feel again.

000000000000

Mycroft Holmes burst through the double doors of the hospital wing and approached the reception desk. The short brunette that was manning the station glanced in his direction before coming out from behind to meet him.

"You would be Mr. Holmes, then? Mycroft Holmes?" she queried, putting her hands on her slim hips.

He raised his eyebrows at the diminutive woman. "Yes…"

She nodded. "This way, then." She turned on her heel and strode down the hallway. Mycroft blinked slowly, but followed her, his long strides closing the distance.

"How did…"

"They said to expect you," the woman interrupted, throwing a small smile over her shoulder. She stopped short in front of the oaken door marked 221 (how fitting) and held the door handle. "I should warn you," she said. "He's been through an awful lot and he's been stitched up like a rag doll."

"Is he conscious?" Mycroft asked.

The nurse shook her head. "He wasn't when I came through on my rounds…thirteen minutes ago, but he was just sleeping. There wasn't any head trauma except for the lacerations. He just lost a lot of blood and had a…rather trying experience." The nurse shuddered visibly, her eyes sliding shut momentarily. When she opened them again, Mycroft saw the tears welling there, but the nurse blinked them away and nodded her head curtly. With that, she opened the door and stood to the side while Mycroft swept into the room, mumbling his thanks as he went.

The hospital room was dim, the harsh fluorescent lighting switched off in exchange for a soft yellow light above the hospital bed. Mycroft took a few steps forwards and made a soft sound in the back of his throat when he saw John lying there. The hospital gown seemed to be covering the extent of his injuries, but Mycroft could see the swathes of bandages extending to the exposed parts of his arms and neck. There was a dark line of stitches on the right side of his face, extending from his temple to his cheekbone. Both of his wrists were wrapped tight in white bandages and his left arm was in a sling. John Watson looked like hell.

Mycroft felt rather than saw the presence of his younger brother stirring in the shadows behind him. Sherlock appeared on his right and together, the Holmes brothers stood in silence and watched the unconscious form of John Watson.

"Any signs of Rupert Frederickson?" Mycroft asked softly.

Sherlock shook his head briefly. The silence stretched on. If you listened closely enough, you could hear the sounds of the gears turning inside each of the Holmes' minds.

Mycroft inhaled audibly. "I'll place a security team around Baker Street immediately."

Sherlock glanced at his brother. "We're fine, Mycroft. I can take care of John and he…he takes care of me."

"And a fine job you did of it tonight," Mycroft remarked softly. Sherlock's fists balled up at his sides, the anger and the memory of fear coursing through him. Mycroft swore he heard his brother hiss like an angry cat.

"No offense intended, Sherlock," Mycroft admonished. "I'm merely suggesting that extra precautions be taken given the events that have so recently occurred. Besides, John may be your partner but he is also a soldier and an independent man. I'm not sure he'd take to you clinging to his side at every waking moment. And I know you would not want him to do the same for you."

Sherlock's sneering chuckle echoed in the room. "But a government surveillance team is completely fine." He glared at Mycroft.

Mycroft sniffed. "My teams would be invisible."

Sherlock sighed heavily and threw another haughty glance at his elder brother. He despised the fact that he knew Mycroft was right and he was embarrassed and guilty that he couldn't protect John on his own. For god's sake, he jumped off a building to protect John, but even that, in the end, hadn't been enough. Even now, the fall had proven to be just another day in the life of Sherlock Holmes' insanity. Three years he had spent tracking criminals across the globe. Three years he'd spent away from the city with which he was completely enraptured. Three years he'd spent apart from the man who was his best friend, his partner, and his lover. Three years…and for what? Moriarty was gone. Moran was gone. But another faceless criminal had risen up to take the reins and the game started all over again. The battles raged on and the war never stopped. Sherlock was beginning to see that he was not the target of this game, per se, but he and John (not to mention Lestrade) were the collateral damage. When you walked with Sherlock Holmes, you saw that battlefield. But when you walked with Mycroft Holmes, you saw the war. _'We must learn to live together as brothers or perish together as fools.'_ Sherlock saw the war and now he saw that Mycroft was trying to prevent them from perishing.

Sherlock sniffed lightly. "Thank you," he mumbled.

Mycroft snorted softly. "With all due respect, Sherlock, I'd rather not take the chance. I have already seen what a grieving John Watson looks like, and it is not something that I care to witness ever again. That being said, I would never like to think of what a grieving Sherlock Holmes would look like." Mycroft tightened his grip on his umbrella ever so slightly.

Sherlock flinched a little at the mention of John's grieving, but he couldn't help but manage to get a dig in at his brother anyway. "So much sentiment, Mycroft. I remember that it was you telling me that caring was not an advantage."

"But we both know that isn't quite true, don't we Sherlock?" Mycroft said. He waved his hand, encompassing the whole room. "We were told from a tender age that our emotions had no place in our lives. And yet here we stand… you and I standing together in a hospital room watching over your…partner, your lover." Mycroft paused for a moment, his head tilted to the side in thought. "John Watson has changed your life rather significantly, little brother. In a roundabout way, he has changed mine as well. Here we are, both feeling and allowing emotion to enter our neural processes…and the world has not fallen. I am just as observant as you are, Sherlock, perhaps even more. I clearly see how much John means to you and consequently how much you mean to him. It would not sit well with my conscience if something were to happen to either of you and I had done nothing to prevent it." Mycroft stopped and considered his next thought before stumbling into it. "Especially if you are to be fighting in my war." His voice had dropped lower and Sherlock almost missed that last statement.

"Well that was awfully sweet of you, Mycroft." Both Holmes men started as the sound of John's raspy voice filled the room. Sherlock lost no time in sweeping past Mycroft to go and stand near John's side, sweeping his long fingers through John's hair. John chuckled a little but leaned into the touch, a soft sigh escaping his lips.

"I'm alright, Sherlock," he said. And truly, he was…the pain medication dripping into his IV had dulled most of the pain, and John only felt slight tugging and itching at his stitches. He did however, feel more than a slight twinge in his bad shoulder, and he looked down to see that his left arm had been immobilized in a sling. He raised a questioning eyebrow at Sherlock.

"The doctor was afraid that you might have re-injured your shoulder since…" Sherlock gulped. "Since you were stung up like a Christmas ham." John winced at the fuzzy memory in the back of his mind. He'd end up dealing with that much later…after the effects of the hazy painkillers wore off. Although he did seem to remember something about…Sherlock…Afghanistan…a Father Christmas costume…Lestrade… _Lestrade. _

"Jesus," John breathed. "Where's Lestrade? Is he okay?" Sherlock felt his legs twitch under the blankets that he was now perched on, but he stilled the doctor's movements with a gentle hand on the man's uninjured cheek.

"He's fine, John," Sherlock said. "We got him out too. You're both okay."

"I believe," Mycroft said from the foot of John's bed, "that the detective inspector in next door, in fact. He is stable, or so I heard."

John nodded and relaxed further into his pillow. He laid there for a moment while Sherlock stroked his thumb over the skin on his hand that wasn't bandaged. God, what he wouldn't have given to just preserve that touch…that moment and just keep it in a little jar. John's brain had other plans for him at the moment. His eyes flew open wider at another memory.

"Sherlock, my trousers. Where are my trousers?" Sherlock frowned but nodded at the bureau at the far end of the room.

"Get them, please," John said. "There was…another…card, another card. I think Frederickson put it in my pocket."

Sherlock stood and went to the drawers, his back ramrod straight and his mouth pressed into a thin line. He removed John's jeans, still covered with dirt and blood, and dug in the pockets until he pulled out a wrinkled but pristine white card.

The silence in the room was deafening.


	17. Battlefields

Ch. 16: Battlefields

Sherlock held the card pinched between his thumb and pointer finger as if it were a deadly snake that was going to strike at him at any moment. He dropped John's jeans back into the drawer and shut it with his hip, taking the card and walking back to John's bedside. Mycroft moved to stand beside him and the brothers read it together.

_Generals and jokers, Mycroft, a king with no crown._

_Who watches the watchmen when you're not around?_

_Liars and thieves, an enemy's friend_

_What will happen to those you cannot defend?_

Sherlock felt his brother stiffen beside him, and when he looked at the man, he saw all forty years of Mycroft's existence plastered in the gentle lines that now seemed to engulf his normally ageless face. His thin lips were pressed into an even thinner line and Sherlock could see that the hands that gripped the ever-present umbrella were white with tension.

"What's it say?" John asked, noting the change in Mycroft's demeanor. He knew that—for a Holmes, anyway—Mycroft's slight change in facial expression was the equivalent to a hysterical outbreak of screaming from any other mortal.

Sherlock passed the card to John, who read it and promptly went pale. The three men traded glances for a minute or so before John finally sighed loudly and thumped his right hand weakly into the bed.

"What does that even mean? It's all riddles, why is it always riddles with you two?" The man's eyes glazed over in frustration and Sherlock sat back down beside him, minding his injuries, and took to running his hands through John's hair again. John moved his head away from Sherlock's fingers, but reached up with his right hand and grasped the man's digits in his instead. He winced as he felt the stinging of the cuts on his hand, but he ignored them and held tight to Sherlock's hand.

"Can you maybe just explain what's going on?" John asked. "You two are both doing that 'we-all-know-what's-going-on-here' face, and I most assuredly don't know what's going on except for the fact that this…woman," he spat the word angrily, "hired a psychopath to torture Lestrade and me and I don't appreciate it one bit." He huffed angrily, but leaned back into his pillows, the tirade leaving him exhausted. Sherlock raised their entwined fingers to brush gently against the man's cheek.

Mycroft crossed the room to settle into the creaking armchair on the opposite side of John's bed while Sherlock nestled in a little closer to John himself, his fingers never leaving the doctor's for a moment. The two brothers looked at each other for a moment before Sherlock inclined his head slightly, indicating that Mycroft should speak.

"Every major crime that has been committed in the past several months," Mycroft began, "has been connected in some way to me and/or the naval treaty. Andrus and the ministers were all involved in the committee after a fashion. The explosion at the Iranian street market two weeks ago killed one of our informants. The attempted burglary on Godolphin Street was at the location where parts of the treaty were drawn up. It's all connected and it all ties back to that treaty and me. It's far too tidy to be coincidence."

John chewed on that for a moment. "Okay…why? Why you? And how did this woman even find out about the treaty in the first place? It's not exactly common knowledge. We had to sign a sodding NDA before you'd tell us anything about it."

It was Sherlock who answered part of this question. "It's rather obvious that this person…this woman…knows that Mycroft is essentially the British government and that he holds a rather terrifying amount of power. Power that can be used to do just about anything that he desires." John swallowed, thinking of the brutal truth behind that statement. Sherlock continued, saying, "She must be in a position of government herself to know these things. As to why she is using her position to damn Mycroft, we can only speculate. Jealousy? Righteous anger? Revenge? It could be anything. Simply put, she is the yang to Mycroft's yin, the dark to the light, the demon to the angel." The two brothers stared at each for a moment.

"As for the treaty," Mycroft said, "if we assume that she is an agent with the British government on some level… well, even top secret committees can be found out, if history is any indication. If she has been employing Rupert Frederickson's interrogation techniques, I don't think it goes too far to assume that she found someone who was near the committee and got them to…confess the whole affair." Mycroft pressed his lips together briefly in agitation. "The treaty is of some significance in our political circles and if it were to be discovered or stolen…the ransom would be staggering. Although I do not deny that there this whole affair is tinged with something…personal… she could simply be in it for the money."

"And if she is in it for the money, why not also take a crack at destroying one of the most influential people in the United Kingdom?" Sherlock finished.

John was frowning again, but he relented as the stitches on his face pulled uncomfortably with the movement. "Then…why kidnap Lestrade and me? I still don't know what we have to do with it. Threatening us was more Moriarty's style…but if she's not after Sherlock…what gives?"

At that, Mycroft stood from his chair abruptly and moved to the window. He stayed there for a minute or so, looking quite fixedly at the scenes outside. John turned to look at Sherlock with questions in his eyes, but Sherlock was also watching his brother the way one might watch a crouched tiger.

Mycroft cleared his throat and turned to focus his hazel-grey eyes on Sherlock and John. He sniffed lightly and said, "Sherlock is… my brother and the only family I have remaining. There is no denying that you, John, and Gregory Lestrade both are important in Sherlock's life. I imagine that watching Sherlock be tormented over you disappearances was meant to be a direct offensive against me."

"Why wouldn't she just take me, then?" Sherlock asked, his voice low and thick. His grip on John's hand tightened and John squeezed back.

Mycroft smiled slowly. "I believe you're familiar with the concept of burning the heart out of someone, Sherlock. The only way to hurt me would be to hurt you. And the only way to hurt you is to hurt them. By the transitive property…no one wins."

"Jesus," John breathed. He tried to process all the information he'd just been given, including the part where Mycroft Holmes (_Mycroft. Holmes_.) had basically just admitted to having feelings for not only Sherlock, but John and even Lestrade by extension. In the back of his mind, John half-wondered if this was a sign of an upcoming apocalypse. But as he took a moment to reflect on what he knew about the Holmes brothers, he knew that they were both capable of feeling and caring, but they believed it to be disadvantageous, distracting, and dangerous. Or at least…they had believed that. It would seem that something had been easing their perceptions of emotions…perhaps the aftermath of Sherlock's fall? John didn't know. But he couldn't help but smile at it.

There was a time in the life of John Watson that he would have gotten very angry at the fact that he was collateral damage in a private war between a minor official in the British government and the queen of the criminal class. But then again, there had also been a time in John's life where he hadn't fallen in love with the world's only consulting detective (who was a man and John was definitely not gay) and he never found fingers in his sugar bowl. Some of Sherlock's idiosyncrasies were…well, idiotic, like the fingers in the sugar or the human liver in the vegetable drawer.

But when John had become Sherlock's partner in heart, body, and soul, he'd agreed to the whole of Sherlock's preposterous life filled with criminals, corpses, explosions, and danger. When you walked with Sherlock Holmes, you saw the battlefields. When you walked with Sherlock, you saw how fire could erupt from a single flame. John was walking with Sherlock and by gods they were walking through the fire, but they were not walking alone. John was a soldier…he knew that collateral damage was an unfortunate side effect of battle. Somehow, that never stopped people from fighting.

"Okay," John said into the still silence of his hospital room. "What do we do now?"


	18. Interlude: Dr Holmes

**Have a fluffy interlude to dull the whumpage a little.**

Interlude: Dr. Holmes

* * *

"Sherlock, I think I can manage this by myself, mate."

"Nonsense, John, you've been injured."

"Yes, but not crippled."

"John…"

"It's okay, love. It's just the staircase and I've just got a few stitches."

"I don't see how you categorize a total of seventy-eight stitches as a few, John."

_Step step step step step step step step step step step step step step step_

"See, look…I made it up, we're home and I haven't…"

"John!"

"Yeah…might need to sit down…"

_Flop thump hisssssss_

"John, are you okay?"

"Yes, mother."

"Why are you allowed to be stroppy when you're injured but I'm not?"

"Because you're a royal pain in the arse all the time…I'm not."

"….."

"Oh come on, Sherlock, don't make that face."

"…."

"It'll stick that way if you keep doing it…"

"…."

_Chuckle_

"If you don't stop making that face, Sherlock Holmes, I'm going to have to kiss it off."

"I believe that's the first sensible thing you've said all week, John."

"Shut up."

"…."

"…."

"…."

"…."

_Moan_

"Where are you going?"

"You're sick, John. I'm going to make you some tea."

"You're going to make the tea."

"I am English, John… I know how to make tea."

"I'm not sick."

"You're injured and you aren't supposed to jostle your shoulder for another week until it gets better too. Now, hush."

"Yes, Doctor Holmes."

"I have completed several doctorates, you know…"

"Honestly?"

"Yes… chemistry, biochemistry, and sociology."

"Of course… so why don't you go by Doctor Holmes?"

"Because I am neither a physician nor a stuffy professor in tweed smoking a pipe on campus at Oxford."

"Okay…"

"Besides… there's already a doctor in this house, and Dr. Watson sounds much nicer than Dr. Holmes."

"….I-I…Thank you, Sherlock."

"You're welcome, John."

_Sip sip sip_

"Are you being nice to me just because I'm injured?"

"No…"

"You never make me tea."

"You make it better."

"You never compliment me."

"You never do anything worth complimenting."

"Ah…there's the Sherlock Holmes I know and love."

_Sniff_

"It makes me sound like a negligent spouse, John."

"You did leave a human liver in with the vegetables."

"It was—'''

"And you've blown up the toaster…three times."

"I just needed-'''

"Not to mention the time that you soaked my favorite jumper in a chemical bath."

"Well it was a hideous jumper…"

_Snort_

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"I'm sorry."

"…for what?"

"For never making you tea or complimenting you. And for blowing up the toaster. And for letting you be kidnapped and tortured."

"…."

"….."

"Sherlock…"

"Please, John, I really am sorry. Sometimes I forget."

"Sherlock, it's okay. You wouldn't be you without our kitchen doubling as a morgue or the endless experiments or the violin playing at four in the morning. I love you for you and if you weren't you… well… I love you, Sherlock Holmes, all of you."

"John…"

"And the kidnapping thing was NOT your fault, do you hear? Don't you ever think that again. I could very easily spend my life living here in 221 B and never leaving except for clinic work and milk. I choose to go with you…I choose the battlefield. I always have."

"John… can I kiss you?"

_Smile_

"You never have to ask, Sherlock."


	19. The Catalyst

Ch. 17: The Catalyst

Mycroft checked his watch and then did a double-take. He'd been working for the past three hours straight through. He rubbed a thin hand over his aching lower back, taking a moment to stretch out ungracefully over the arm of his chair. When he heard something pop, he straightened and stood up, popping the bones in his neck as he went. It was definitely time for tea.

He pressed a button on the underside of his desk to ring for Anthea. When she didn't appear immediately, Mycroft frowned and pressed the button again. She still didn't appear. Mycroft straightened his tie and walked out of his office and into the outer chamber, where Anthea's station was located.

He didn't see the woman there, so he cast a curious glance around the office, a sophisticated and Zen space done up in rich mahogany and ambers and blues. His face dissolved into a gentle half-smile when he saw the woman curled delicately on the luxurious couch in the corner of the room, her blazer thrown over her shoulder like a blanket. He did not approach her, lest his movements wake her up. The poor woman worked twice as hard as he did, so he could appreciate her exhaustion and need for rest. He decided to retreat to their small dining area to make his own tea.

As Mycroft was waiting for the kettle to boil, he settled down at the small table and picked up a copy of the newspaper that had been placed there. He had just settled down into a story about the American education crisis (really, when were the going to learn?) when he heard a faint buzzing sound. Curious, he listened again, but the sound did not come. He stood and switched off the kettle for the moment. That buzzing sound had been awfully familiar…

Understanding clicked in his mind. Under his desk there were two buttons; one was patched directly through to Anthea's computer and mobile. The other was a remnant from days past and buzzed directly into the kitchen, much like the bell pulls in old manor houses. Mycroft frowned. Who the devil was buzzing…?

Mycroft left the kitchen and passed into the outer office. Anthea was sitting up on the couch, stretching her arms above her head. When she saw Mycroft, she let out a little mewling sound in panic, putting her arms down hurriedly and fixing her hair. She stood up quickly and threw the blazer back on over her shirt.

"Mr. Holmes?" she asked. "Is there something I can do for you? I am terribly sorry for dozing off…"

"Anthea, have you heard or seen anyone come through this office in the past five minutes?"

Anthea frowned. "Sir? No, sir… I've only just woken up. I didn't hear anything at all, sir."

Mycroft stalked away and into his office. Anthea frowned and reached for her Blackberry, thumbing it open and clicking away at it, following Mycroft into his office.

Mycroft was looking under his desk…no, scratch that. He was looking at the underside of his desk, scanning his eyes along the paneling. With slow and steady hands, he reached towards the back and released a hidden catch. A secret panel at the back of the desk clicked open and Mycroft ran his hand along the inside. When he felt nothing but an empty wooden space, his heart dropped like a stone into his feet and he felt bile rise up at the back of his throat. He felt around again while his mind exploded into a thousand pinpricks of black, starry light. His fingers brushed something that felt like paper, and he seized it and dragged it out.

It was a sickeningly familiar creamy white card. There was no violet ink on it this time. Instead, there was a print on the card where a woman had pressed her lips to the page, her scarlet lipstick mapping every dip and curve there on the card. Mycroft heard the sound of his heart beating in his ears and he suddenly found it difficult to breathe.

The naval treaty had been hidden in that compartment. And now it was gone.

0000000000

Sherlock stalked into Mycroft's office, his coat billowing behind him like a Belstaff sail. John followed him in, his arm finally out of the sling and his cuts healing nicely. Anthea brought up the rear, her omniscient Blackberry caught between her hands but her fingers stilled for once. Mycroft was sitting in his chair, which had been pushed away from the desk. His face was pale and his eyes were fixed on something in the distance, but his mind was a thousand miles away. John raised an eyebrow at Mycroft and went over to look at the man. Sherlock bent to examine the desk and the area around it.

"Sherlock, he's in shock," John said, his voice indicating surprise and not a little anxiety.

Sherlock didn't answer, seeing as how he was currently engaged in his examination. _Carpeting…no visible footprints, but scuff marks indicating thief knew to brush his prints away. His? Hmm…oh, there, one half of a footmark…length of the stride, yes most likely a man. What's this? Errant thread…cotton and silk blend…doesn't match Mycroft's suit, but does match Anthea's…normal, she is his…what, secretary? She's in here all the time, probably fetching him cake. Desk. Cherry, two buzzers, one for Anthea and one for…the kitchen, throwback to antiquated bell pull systems. No signs of any errant smudging or trace residues. How irritating. Okay, secret drawer in the back, activated by…that…button there, fine, fine… Compartment big enough for a thin manila envelope, size roughly 8.5 by 11. Surely treaty not just in paper…oh, it was a memory stick. Digitized file can be duplicated and sent in the blink of an eye. Problematic. _

Sherlock tried to stand, forgetting that he was crouched under a desk, and subsequently thunked his head on the underside of the desk, drawing a colorful curse that made John turn his head and look at him. Sherlock withdrew and picked up the white card in his gloved hands.

_Same card, same style…no writing, just the lipstick mark. Definitely a woman's lips, smells like women's lipstick, waxy residue consistent… brand? I should probably start making an index of women's lipstick brands by composition, texture, smell, etc… Hmm… might have to consult Molly on that. _

Sherlock placed the card back on the desk and moved to face his brother. Mycroft was sipping delicately at the cup of oolong tea that John had placed in his hands and trying to maintain that cool, collected Holmesian exterior that he'd worked on for forty years. However, Sherlock could clearly see the strain written on the man's pale, long face. There was a discreet wrinkle just between his eyebrows that told the whole story.

"Well?" the elder Holmes stated, fixing his brother with a cool but wary glance.

"Well, Mycroft, I don't expect that I have seen anything that you haven't," Sherlock responded. "Not that there was much to go on here anyway." The silence in the room stretched on for a minute too long.

"Well," John finally said, "what are we supposed to do?"

Sherlock stared down his brother. "I suppose you have already informed the Prime Minister?"

Mycroft's head jerked in a sharp, short affirmative.

"And?"

"And I am to be…detained until an official investigation has cleared me," Mycroft said, his voice a thick monotone. Sherlock stiffened and turned to face the window.

"What?" John spluttered. "How can they… but you weren't even…how can they believe that you had something to do with this? You weren't even in the room!"

Mycroft chuckled softly. "But there is no evidence to support that, John. I left my office, yes, but there is no surveillance here in this office or the outer office. Anthea was asleep. There is nothing to prove that I had not removed the thumb drive with the treaty earlier."

"But if you had taken it, why would you go through the trouble of alerting its disappearance now?" John asked, thoroughly bewildered.

"Arrogance," Anthea piped in, her voice filled with something that was akin to pain. "Egotism. A chance to show everyone up."

"Perhaps a missive from the people you stole it for," Sherlock continued. "Blackmail upon your own treason."

"I am no traitor," Mycroft said. His voice was low and deadly and the stare he shot at every person in the room…well, let's just say that if looks could kill, they'd all be dead.

"Who will lead the investigation?" Sherlock asked.

"A team from British Intelligence," Mycroft answered. "A Colonel Percy Phelps is in charge."

"Are you confined to London?"

Mycroft shook his head. "No, but I cannot leave the country."

Sherlock nodded once. "Then I suggest that you retire to our manor in Woking for the time being. The less time you spend in London at the moment, the better. In addition, it will keep you out of my hair while I conduct my investigation."

"What, are we going to work with British Intelligence, then?" John asked.

Sherlock shot him a scandalized look. "The very words are a contradiction of terms, John. No, we will not be working with British Intelligence." He laid one thin hand on Mycroft's shoulder. "Mycroft, take Anthea and go to Woking. Alert your surveillance teams…you know the drill. John and I will stay here and find the treaty, find the woman, and stop the games."

John watched the two of them with a curious feeling in the pit of his stomach. These two were probably the smartest men in all of the United Kingdom; the world's only consulting detective and the man who was the British government. One had faked his own death in order to spend three years tracking down and destroying a web of malicious criminals. The other need only twitch his finger to bring any person in the country to his knees. John had always assumed that Mycroft had the dominant hand in their relationship merely because of his position (and apparently his greater deductive ability). But now, in a dramatic reversal of roles, Sherlock was taking the upper hand, commanding Mycroft to disappear into the English countryside while he stayed in London and took care of business. It was…mad!

John waited until they were in a cab headed towards Baker Street to voice his misgivings. It just seemed a little ludicrous to him that the most powerful man in all of Great Britain was going to just hide away in Woking until his little brother and his partner cleaned up the mess and it was safe to come home. For crying out loud, Mycroft spent half his time making sure they were alright and now… now their roles were reversed. How were they supposed to watch over the man who practically was the British government?

"Sherlock," he started, "why are we doing this? And I don't mean…why are we trying to protect Mycroft. The man's practically my…" John gulped as he swallowed the words that had nearly come out of his mouth. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Practically your what, John?" the taller man insisted, his voice low and curious.

John toyed with his options…and then decided to throw all pretenses out the window. _Fuck it._ "He's practically my brother-in-law and I know he means a lot to you even if you do bicker like four-year olds."

Sherlock felt something warm and giddy bloom near the center of his chest and he had to work doubly hard to squeeze that feeling back into its little shell. It wasn't the right time or place to dwell on those thoughts and feelings, but he couldn't help the little grin that played over his face at John's implications. He leaned over and slotted his lips against John's in a loving caress. Sherlock was a very tactile person and preferred to show John rather than tell him things of the sort.

When John pulled back, his head was swimming pleasantly and he was having a little trouble bringing oxygen to his brain. He pressed his forehead against Sherlock's and they rested there momentarily, feeling each other breathe.

"How are we supposed to do this, Sherlock?" John whispered. He pulled his head back and looked at his partner. "Mycroft is the third most powerful person in the country besides the Prime Minister and the Queen herself," he said. "He's usually the one that's watching our backs. And we've just…sent him off to the country. This is an international conspiracy and a crime dealing with the…bloody shadowy depths of the English government. It's practically got Mycroft's name written all over it and he's hiding away in Woking."

Sherlock stared back into John's eyes. Sometimes he envied John for his more simplistic upbringing and his innate naiveté when it came to things like politics and deception and such. John was loyalty, John was honesty…John was never having to lie about who you were or what you wanted. John was caring and looking someone straight in the face and telling them that you love them. John was a warm bed to sleep in and a delicious cup of hot tea on a winter's morning. John was home. Upon reflection, that's probably why they fit together so well. Sherlock was all shadows and angles and little parlour tricks, but John was light and warmth and circles.

"The ones who sit the highest have the farthest to fall," Sherlock said. "Mycroft is an absolute git and he is…nosy and manipulative and boring. We've had more than our fair share of rows and rifts deep enough to keep us apart forever. But you're right, John. Mycroft is the one who has consistently watched over us through the years. He's pulled me out of some of the darkest places… he was my lantern before you came along to be my sun." Sherlock smiled down at him. "It's never glamorous when the mighty fall, John, you know that. Mycroft's never left me fall… and so I won't let him fall either."

John couldn't help but think that Sherlock did indeed fall…a fall that was convincing enough for the majority of the world to believe. But that didn't seem important right now. He could sense something bubbling in Sherlock's mind and it was boiling over into his grey-green eyes. This woman, whoever she was, had thrown in the catalyst. Now she would have to deal with the reaction.

**A/N: For those of you who have read Arthur Conan Doyle's stories, you will recognize some of the names, places, and circumstances in the Adventure of the Naval Treaty (as if it wasn't blatantly obvious...) in this chapter and in those chapters to come. I don't own any of it, I'm just...borrowing it for your dining and dancing pleasure. (PS, if you haven't read any of ACD's Sherlock Holmes stories...you need to do it...preferably now.) **


	20. Series of Unfortunate Events

Ch. 18: A Series of Unfortunate Events

* * *

Mycroft paced the Persian rug in front of the fireplace until there was a well-tamped trail marking the fine fibers. His mind was abuzz with a cascade of thoughts and he was finding it more difficult than usual to properly sort and catalogue them all. The theft of the treaty was an enormous blow and had potentially catastrophic consequences if its contents were known to certain nations around the world. Moreover, it had been placed in Mycroft's care because he had arguably been the safest and most trustworthy member of the committee. He had assured them that the treaty would remain safe in his possession and logically he thought it had been safe. If he'd known that he would have had to contest with a madwoman that was apparently attempting to destroy him and his career, he would have never agreed to hold it. The documents were of course password-protected, but passwords could be cracked and with the technology available…it was only a matter of time.

He crossed to the side-board and picked up the crystal decanter of American whiskey, pouring himself a small shot of the dark amber liquid. He sipped at it slowly, savoring the smoky, woody finish and the bloom of warmth it produced in his throat. He had to hand it to the Americans…they were a daft bunch, sometimes, but they could make a damn fine whiskey.

He sat down in the leather armchair and closed his eyes, calling up his own version of a mind-palace. It was an old trick that one of his mentors had taught him and he in turn had taught it to Sherlock. Mycroft called up all the data he had about the naval treaty and the problem surrounding it.

**Select:** Naval Treaty

**Naval Treaty**

_Subcategory_: Iranian nuclear submarines

_Subcategory_: NATO contract

_Subcategory_: International committee **(select)**

**International committee:**

_Subcategory_: Dates and Times

_Subcategory_: Documents

_Subcategory_: Members **(select)**

**Members** (International committee for naval treaty)

_Subcategory_: Representatives

_Subcategory_: Aides

_Subcategory_: Staff

Mycroft ran through the mental lists of the people who had attended their meetings over the years they'd been drawing up the document. It was a rather lengthy list, but it was really nothing for the eidetic memory of Mycroft Holmes. His stomach dropped a little when he ran over Andrus' name, but he kept going. The answer had to be in here somewhere. The only way someone would have known about Mycroft's involvement with the treaty (and consequently the depth of his involvement and his possession of the documents) was if they had been in attendance. Perhaps a rogue staff member…someone that didn't quite fit in the workings…

0000000000000

The woman named Persephone glanced at her mobile as it chimed softly in the stillness of the room. She picked it up and thumbed open the message. It was from her.

**It's time. **

She typed back a reply. _**Ready when you are.**_

**Make me proud, Persephone.**

Persephone swallowed back the unexpected lump that had risen in her throat. Persephone may have gotten into this game for the money (for a hell of a lot of money, actually), but in the past few years she'd grown closer to this woman who had mentored her and shown her power that she didn't know she possessed. She owed her a lot and the last thing she was going to do was fail her on the culmination of their mission.

_**Yes ma'am**_.

0000000000000

"Captain Watson? Captain John Watson?"

Both John and Sherlock turned as they heard a new voice enter the room. A tall, thin man with a wispy blonde comb over walked into the room and approached the consulting detective and the doctor. He was nervously wringing his thin hands together and his back had a slight hunch to it as he paced across the room. He came up to John and thrust one of the thin hands out, pushing his round, coke-bottle glasses back up on the bridge of his nose with the other. John raised an eyebrow, but gripped the man's hand in his own.

"Captain Watson, it's good to see you again. I don't know if you remember me… my name is Percy Phelps and I was in your battalion in Afghanistan."

Sherlock watched John's eyes narrow as he tried to place this man. Sherlock looked Percy Phelps up and down trying to look for the marks of his military service. Yes, the slightly tanned skin was still evident from long days spent in the desert sun. But all the "normal" marks of a military man—stride, posture, demeanor—were not evident in this anxious-looking man. Sherlock looked closer at his hands. Ah…systems analyst, then…working with the computers and the intelligence data.

John was nodding his head. "Yes… Phelps, I remember you now. Didn't I…"

Phelps nodded, completing John's thought. "Yes, you took a bullet out of my leg when we took fire in the highlands."

John bit his lip in remembrance and nodded grimly. It had not been a good day, that day. If any day in Afghanistan in the middle of a war was a good day, that is. Then something Mycroft had said popped into his mind. Oh. Colonel Percy Phelps.

"Ah," John said, throwing up a half-hearted salute. "Colonel Phelps, then?"

Phelps waved off the salute with a flip of his long hand. "No need to stand on formality. I understand you're just a doctor, nowadays. Well, a doctor and a partner to Mr. Holmes, the world's only consulting detective." Percy offered his hand to Sherlock.

Sherlock accepted Percy's hand and shook it. "Sherlock, please, Colonel."

Phelps waved his hand again. "Percy, please, for the both of you. I don't see the need for formality whenever one-half of the duo has seen you without your trousers and the other half can tell me about my life based on my tie-pin." Both men smiled at that and John even let out a small chuckle. It was true…he had seen the intelligence officer without his trousers. These things happened when you were an army doctor.

"Now then," Phelps said, lacing his hands behind his back. "We have a small problem, gentlemen, as I am sure that you're aware."

000000000000

Mycroft's lips thinned into a dangerously white line across his face as he ended the call on his mobile. He closed his eyes for a moment, summoning every last shred of his will-power. He passed a trembling hand over his face and took a few deep breaths. Straightening in his chair, he punched a number into the mobile and waited while it rang.

"I need that surveillance footage. Now." His voice was low, crisp, and dripping with venom.

_Anthea…_

000000000000

A younger man in a crisp black suit came into the room carrying a small electronic tablet. He walked over to Sherlock and handed him the tablet, nodding his head once as he did so. Sherlock took the tablet from the man with a questioning look in his eye. As he accepted the tablet, his mobile buzzed. He clicked open the message.

**Review footage. MH**

Sherlock frowned and John noticed. He and Phelps came to stand by the tall detective, who was using his long fingers to activate the tablet and call up the video screen. The still shot showed a grainy image of what appeared to be a parking garage. Sherlock pressed the small white play button, starting the video.

The three men watched as a woman—Mycroft's assistant Anthea, John explained to Phelps—walked towards a black sedan. She was rummaging in her handbag for something when out of the right hand corner of the screen, another dark sedan screeched to a halt. Anthea froze as she watched the dark car and then took off running. They watched as four men in dark clothes took off after her.

The angle switched as the footage swept to another camera and they watched Anthea run down the concrete and stumble over her high heels. That one stumble was all it took for the four men to overtake her. She put up a valiant struggle and managed to land a few well-placed punches and even one good roundhouse kick with a booted foot, but they quickly overpowered her. One man must have pinched the pressure point by her neck because she was soon a boneless burden in their hands. One tossed a black bag over her head as another lifted her up and threw her bodily over his shoulder. The three men watched from the two camera angles as they loaded Anthea into the trunk of the car and sped away.

Sherlock put the tablet down on the desk as the video ended and he pursed his lips in thought. He pulled out his mobile and shot a text to his brother.

**What would you like me to do? SH**

**Find her. MH**

**The treaty? Phelps is here with us. SH**

Sherlock could practically hear his brother's hesitation. Because the Holmes family was not particularly known for their dealings in selflessness, of course it was difficult for Mycroft to consider this. The theft of the treaty and the potential for its sale to a foreign power would be a black mark upon Mycroft's governmental service and probably signal the end of his career. But Anthea was his assistant and confidante…almost like Mycroft's version of John...

He waited, wondering what his brother would choose.

0000000000

Mycroft stared at his brother's text and let his head thump back against his chair. This really was the thing that separated the mice from the men, wasn't it? The ability to put others over one's interests… to tell Sherlock to abandon his search for the treaty and find Anthea as quickly as possible. The lost treaty had the ability to end his career and could even land him in prison. The idiom "innocent until proven guilty" never flew in these situations. They worked for the government…everyone was guilty of something. It didn't necessarily make you dangerous or traitorous, but anyone who had worked in government longer than thirty seconds knew that everybody had secrets and you were lucky if no one ever discovered those secrets.

An unexpected thump of guilt hit Mycroft square in the chest as an epiphany flooded through his mind. What did it matter if his career was going to end? Well, actually it mattered a lot, but Anthea's safety must always come first. Mycroft closed his eyes as a vision of the lovely woman came to his mind, all soft curves and dusky colors and impeccable taste in…well, everything. She was his right hand and was incredibly good at her job. She'd been at his side for years and there was no way he was going to let his career overshadow her life. Mycroft frowned at himself, angry that he'd even hesitated over this. He thumbed an answer into his mobile for Sherlock.

**Find her. MH**

0000000000000

Sherlock sat down in Mycroft's chair after receiving his text, opening up the video again on the tablet. He quickly explained the circumstances to Phelps, who nodded his understanding and then excused himself to talk to his team. John settled behind Mycroft's chair, watching the video with Sherlock again over his shoulder.

When it got to the fight scene, John watched it again and something tickled the back of his brain. He tapped Sherlock's shoulder, who then paused the video and looked up.

"What?" he asked.

"Can you take it back a few frames for me?" John asked, his brow furrowing into a hesitant frown.

Sherlock obliged, his fingers tapping quickly at the touchscreen. When he'd gotten the video to an appropriate frame, he shifted slightly as he sensed John's presence moving to perch on the arm of the chair. John leaned closer to the screen, nodding for Sherlock to play it again.

That time, Sherlock saw what John was looking for.

"Did you see that?" John asked warily.

"I believe I did," Sherlock answered, his baritone voice rumbling in John's ear.

As they watched the scene one more time, both men—the extremely observant detective and the trained fighting man—saw it about forty seconds after the tussle started. Anthea was turned slightly and had reached out her arm to take a swing at one of the masked assailants. However, as she moved her fist towards the man, they saw him tense and then ever so slightly twist out of the way so that it appeared her fist had hit him, but it actually had skimmed right by him.

"What do you suppose that means?" John questioned, turning to look at Sherlock more directly.

"Well," Sherlock said, "it could indicate a number of things, the two most likely situations being that he either predicted her swing and moved out of the way in time or…" He trailed off and pursed his lips slightly.

Sherlock turned to face John and said, "Or he knew what she was going to do."

John made a face. "Well, she did sort of telegraph her move, but…"

"No, John," Sherlock said. "I mean… he knew what she was going to do because they planned it." He raised his eyebrows and flicked steely grey-blue eyes at John.

John went still and stared off into space for a moment. "Sherlock…you don't think…"

"I think many things," Sherlock responded. "We need to get to the scene before any evidence disappears."


	21. Close

**Hey everyone. My muse has just recently returned (praise the gods) and so the next few chapters just sort of...erupted from my fingers. If you're reading along and something is just...totally nonsensical, please let me know! Otherwise... enjoy! And thank you. **

* * *

Ch. 19: Close

Sherlock knelt over the thick, black tire streaks and began his investigation, running his hands over the marks and activating his senses to take in all the details. John had moved to the part of the lot where the fight had broken out and he was doing his damndest to activate his Sherlock-sense and pick up on things that the detective might.

But there was nothing. There was no blood, which John took to be a good thing, although…if Sherlock was right about it being a staged encounter, there wouldn't be any blood, so that really didn't help them. The concrete floor gave no evidence of the fight, not even a stray scuff from a shoe. John was just about to get frustrated when he saw a little flutter out of the corner of his eye. He glanced to his left and saw a crumpled piece of paper near the tire of the car shift in the breeze. He crouched down to reach under the car and pick it up, straightening and clutching his prize in his hand.

He unfurled the paper and looked at the strange markings covering the surface. It looked like… a blueprint of some sort… but the markings were nothing like John had ever seen before. There were lots of strange thin, blue rectangles and red rectangles and some of them were tipped with thick, black arrows. John studied the images for a few more minutes before he heard Sherlock's voice calling him over.

"John," he said excitedly, "these tire markings are quite spectacular. The rubber will of course need to be tested in the lab, but I think I may have deduced where the car came from."

In the light of that revelation, John quite forgot about his discovery. "What?" he spluttered. "How do you know where the car came from? It didn't have any number plates."

Sherlock gestured to a small, plastic bag in which a sample of the degraded rubber sat. "No, it didn't, but I recognize the feel and the smell of this particular tire rubber and I'd bet that I am correct about its origins. There's something familiar about this specific polymer that leads me to believe that my deductions are correct. I will need to test it, of course, but…" He grinned a wolfish grin.

John stared. "Well?" he prodded.

Sherlock stared back for a minute before saying, "Oh! Yes, of course…I believe that the unmarked car that came here belonged to our old friends at Janus Cars."

"Janus Cars?" John asked, his brain buzzing a little. "How can you so sure?"

"As I said, John… when we were investigating the little problem tied in with Janus Cars, I took the liberty of…showing myself around before we had our meeting with the proprietor." He smirked.

"Showing yourself… you said you had to use the loo!"

Sherlock shrugged. "I lied." He sniffed a little and turned his attention back to his blogger. "Well…did you find anything?"

John blinked for a moment. "Oh," he said, reaching into his pocket for the paper. "I found this under a car over there. I don't recognize these symbols, do you?"

Sherlock unraveled the paper and let his eyes wander over it. He tilted his head to the left like a curious dog as he studied the rectangles and arrows seemingly arranged in a haphazard pattern across the page. There was no legend and no writing to indicate the meaning of the symbols or what they represented. He frowned, but folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket with the sample of rubber.

"I'm not sure what it means, but I need to go to the lab to test this rubber. I can study it more while I'm waiting for results." With that, he turned on his heel and left, the tails of his coat and his faithful John following behind him.

00000000000

The woman inhaled the fresh, cool air and made a mental note to plan more excursions into the English countryside. It was certainly a refreshing change of pace from the sooty streets of London. She listened to the soft breeze rustle the leaves of the trees around her like a quiet melody. The woman closed her eyes in pleasure as the sinking sun shed its blushing light on the scene in benediction, a blessing from the universe.

She pulled out her mobile and flicked it open to the contact that she needed. The wheels had been set in motion. The car from London had arrived just moments ago with their package and the second phase of the plan was about to begin. The woman smirked in delight at the thought of claiming her prize at long last. She focused on the screen in front of her and typed a message.

**I think it's time you and I had a chat, Mycroft.**

The man's reply came almost instantly and she shook her head, tittering softly as she did so. So needy…and so desperate she could practically taste it. But she wasn't quite done playing with him yet. He was a smart man…he'd figure it out eventually.

**5 February 1998. Don't be late. **

In the weakening rays of the autumnal sun, Mycroft's grip on his phone tightened until the skin of his knuckles shone white. A tremor ran through his mind at the sight of the date but his face betrayed nothing. He drew a sharp breath before turning and stalking out of the study. Before he reached the door, he hesitated for a moment before returning to the side-table and laying his mobile out in plain sight. Sherlock would need that. With that, he turned on a heel and strode out the door.

He knew exactly where he was going.

0000000000

Sherlock paced the length of the floor in the living room of the flat, his head sunk upon his chest and his hands laced behind his back. They'd finished up the chemical analysis on the tire rubber and sure enough, it was the same polymer and had the same chemical residues that Janus Cars used to clean and maintain the tires of their vehicles. After paying them another visit (which had nearly thrown the proprietor into a state of hysterics), they'd discovered that the car had been stolen off the lot days prior and there had been no conclusive surveillance. It would have appeared that they were at a dead end.

An idea popped into Sherlock's mind and he stopped pacing for a moment as he considered it. John looked up from his laptop when he noticed the cessation of movement from his restless partner.

"John, my mobile," the detective demanded in a quiet voice. When John neither answered nor moved, Sherlock flicked his eyes in the direction of John's desk. John was flashing him an "I'm waiting" look. Sherlock barely contained his massive eye-roll and instead grated out a "Please?"

John smirked a little and stood to retrieve the phone where it sat on the detective's desk (where he'd thrown it earlier in a fit of impatience). He handed the small device to Sherlock and managed to slip a chaste kiss on the man's lips before he became engrossed in the device. Sherlock paused long enough to return the gesture with a gentle pressure before backing away with his mobile. He pulled up Lestrade's number and placed the phone against his ear.

"Hello?" the detective inspector answered.

"Lestrade," Sherlock replied. "I am in need of your assistance. Are you able to access the CCTV footage from—'''

"Sherlock," Lestrade cut in. "I can't help you, mate. I'm not in London."

Sherlock's lips thinned in irritation. "What do you mean you aren't in London?"

"I took a holiday in Scotland," Lestrade answered.

"Why the hell are you on holiday in Scotland?" Sherlock demanded angrily. "I need you here!"

"Oh I don't know, Sherlock," Lestrade said. "I was just feeling kind of blue, you know…after having been kidnapped and tortured by a homicidal lunatic." Lestrade took Sherlock's silence in stride and continued. "I had a total of 138 stitches and a broken wrist, Sherlock. I think I earned this one."

Sherlock hissed a soft sigh against the mobile. "My apologies, Lestrade."

Lestrade chuckled. "It's okay, Sherlock. Are you okay? Is John okay?"

"We're fine," Sherlock assured him. "We're working on a…case."

"Donovan didn't mention anything last time she checked in," Lestrade said.

"It's a case for Mycroft," Sherlock replied, catching John's eye warily. "But, um…thank you anyway, Lestrade. Enjoy your holiday." Sherlock shut down the call before Lestrade had a chance to reply. John shot him a look.

"Man's on a bloody holiday in Scotland!" Sherlock yelled, flinging his mobile on to the couch.

John chuckled lightly from his desk. "He deserved the trip, Sherlock." John stared out the window for a moment, lost in a memory of the camaraderie he had shared with the detective inspector during their… encounter with Rupert Frederickson. He wondered if Lestrade had nightmares…

John sighed. "Besides, I hear the lochs are beautiful this time of year." Maybe that's what they could do after all this was over…just take a short holiday somewhere spectacular…just get away from it all, and… John stopped his train of thought as he noticed Sherlock had gone rigid and was staring into space, his eyes wider and his head tilted to the right in thought.

"Oh…" Sherlock breathed. "That's it, John! That's it!" He was suddenly a flurry of motion as he ran to the doctor's desk and first pressed a loud kiss to the top of the man's head before rifling through the papers on the desk until he came up with the crumpled paper they'd found in the lot. Sherlock spread the paper out in front of them and thrust his finger on to one of the blue rectangles.

"Locks, John! That's the answer. These symbols…they represent locks in a canal system. Ugh, I'm so stupid, I should have seen it right away!" He punctuated his sentence by tapping his finger vigorously at the paper again.

"Locks, Sherlock? Canal locks? You think…they took Anthea to a canal?" John frowned. That didn't make a whole lot of sense….

"Yes, John, but what's more is that I know this canal system. I know exactly where it is. It's the Basingstoke Canal system in Woking, we used to go there on hikes all the time when we were children." Sherlock's cheeks were flushed pink with success and he was speaking rapidly. "Believe it or not there are actually a plethora of places Anthea could have been taken along this canal system."

He stalked to the coat rack and grabbed the Belstaff overcoat and tossed John's over to him. "Hurry, John, we've not a moment to—'''

All John heard was the tinkling sound of broken glass and a muffled grunt from Sherlock. He looked first to the window, which now appeared to have a very intricate shatter pattern in the middle of it, all surrounding a small hole. He then looked to Sherlock, who had gone pale and was looking fixedly at his arm. John's brain melted in several places as he observed a scarlet stain beginning to spread over the fabric of Sherlock's immaculate white shirt.

"Sherlock!" he shouted. John ran in a crouched position, a habit from his army days where gunfire was as common as the rain in England. He reached Sherlock and yanked the man down to the ground. John had many a time worked frantically at the buttons of Sherlock's shirts, but today he was unbuttoning his detective to examine him as a doctor and not a lover. It was not John's preferred activity after the unbuttoning, but his mind was frantic with the need to know that Sherlock was okay.

"John," the detective in question whispered. "I'm okay…it just grazed me. I'm fine." John growled when he tried to push the doctor's hands away, so Sherlock relented and let his partner remove his shirt and take his arm.

Sherlock was right… the bullet that had sneaked in their window had only grazed the arm, but it was deep enough that John was going to have to place some stitches. John stayed still for a moment, listening for more bullets and watching the shadowy corners of the flat.

"Sherlock," he said quietly, "you're okay, but I need to clean and stitch this. Stay here." With that, John stood into another crouched position and hurried down the hall for his med kit and a damp cloth. He came back quickly and set to work sewing up Sherlock's arm, who only hissed once when John had swiped the cloth over the wound.

When he was sewn shut, John repacked his kit and leaned wearily against the doorframe while Sherlock put the bloody shirt back on. He watched and waited for a few minutes before standing up and offering a hand down to John. John grasped the detective's hand, grateful for the extra help upon standing seeing as how the impromptu bullet through their window was reawakening his old war wounds…both the real ones and the psychosomatic ones. John sighed as Sherlock pulled him into an embrace, the thin but strong arms wrapped tightly around his waist.

"Well, what the hell was that all about?" John asked, his voice muffled slightly seeing as how his face was pressed into Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock pulled back and looked to the window. "A warning," he said, the silky baritone taking a rough edge.

"How do you know that?"

Sherlock gave John a grim smile. "What does it tell you when an assassin misses?"

General Shan's words echoed in John's brain. He swallowed and said, "It means that they weren't really trying."

Sherlock nodded. "A warning, then. We must be close." He huffed a breath out and pulled the Belstaff coat on, wincing as the fabric slid over his injured arm. "Come along, John… we've got to get to Woking."

"But wait!" John cried. "What about…" he jerked his head towards the broken window.

Sherlock shook his head. "Probably long gone by now…wouldn't have waited for us to recover and go find him."

"Do you think there will be more?" John fixed his flatmate with a steady but wary gaze that was somehow simultaneously the look of a soldier and a healer. It was readiness and anxiety all tied with a little bow of excitement and fear.

Sherlock shrugged. "Could be dangerous… but I have the feeling the end of the puzzle lies in Woking…at the Basingstoke Canal. That's where we need to go."

John scrubbed his face with a hand before shaking his head and looking at his partner. "Well, what are we waiting for?"

Sherlock grinned and dashed out the door.

**A/N: Again...I'm not an Englishwoman. Everything I learned about Woking/the Basingstoke Canal, I learned from a 12 minute foray on Google Maps and Wikipedia. Call it artistic license. **


	22. Reflections

Ch. 20: Reflections

Mycroft walked down the forest path along the canal edge, his leather shoes crunching over the fallen leaves. A cold breeze had been whispering in the trees around him, but Mycroft noticed none of it. He was fixated on the path ahead of him, his mind awash in a tempest of guilt and tension. 5 February 1998…how did she even know about that? Mycroft had buried that date and that knowledge long ago.

_It was cold…not that February in England was ever anything other than cold. Mycroft snugged his coat a little tighter around himself as he followed Annie down the path. He could see the silver from Annie's skates glinting in the moonlight and Mycroft thought—not for the first time that evening—that what they were doing was incredibly stupid. For god's sake, they weren't teenagers anymore! He sighed loudly. _

_Annie's silvery chuckle echoed off the icy branches that cocooned their path. "Wishing you'd brought your skates after all, Mycroft?"_

_He snorted. "Wishing you'd call off this foolish field trip so we could go home, Annie." _

_The delightful laugh came again. "You were the one that suggested we take a break."_

"_Yes, a break. Not a bloody outing to the middle of nowhere." _

_Annie's reply was lost as they came to the clearing. The full moon shone down into the open space, glinting off the frozen water and the delicate icicles gracing the naked shrubbery around them. Annie sighed deeply in contentment as she plopped down on a log near the water's edge to lace up her skates. Mycroft stood nearby, his hands shoved in his pockets and a critical eye placed on Annie. The pale light played upon her soft, ebony hair and her cheeks were tinged a lovely pink shade from the cold and the exertion of the hike. Her parka was cinched smartly at the waist and as unfamiliar as Mycroft was with emotions, he couldn't help but feel a surge of excitement run through his veins at the sight of this really lovely and bright woman. _

"_Enjoying the view?" Annie asked. Mycroft started as her voice broke into his thoughts and he flushed a healthy crimson color. Annie chuckled and reached up to grab at the lapels of his coat. She pulled him down and kissed his lips gently. When she pulled back, Mycroft swallowed hard but there was a new smile tweaking with the corners of his mouth and that made Annie chuckle with happiness. She stood up and sat Mycroft down on the log and then did the awkward waddle towards the ice in her skates. _

"_Annie…" Mycroft called, a hint of pleading in his voice. _

"_It's fine, Mycroft! The water's frozen…it's February in England for god's sake!" With that, she slid gracefully on to the ice, reveling in the feel of the virgin solidity beneath her. No ice rink could compare to the feeling of real ice beneath your feet. _

Mycroft's mind snapped back to the present as he approached the same clearing he saw in his memories. The sun was beginning to set and the impatient moon waited in the sky. He took a few steps further into the clearing and inhaled deeply, the scent of the forest bringing back more memories. The water was lapping gently at the edges of the shore and the last of the leaves were beginning to fall from the trees. As he remembered the scene from 1998, he could almost feel the ice and frost crisping the ground around him. He closed his eyes and lost himself in the sensation.

_Annie looked so graceful on the ice…like a ballet dancer. He watched as she took a couple of experimental laps around the ice, skirting the edges and practicing the familiar movements. As she made a few more circles around, he saw the look of concentration tighten her face. Mycroft inhaled sharply as Annie suddenly leapt into the air, completing a spin and landing elegantly while spreading her arms wide to dispel the momentum. He was completely captivated by the look of sheer joy on her face. _

_Mycroft felt the extra presence in the clearing long before he heard anything. It seemed it was a sixth sense and to be quite frank it had served him well over the years. He remained where he was, watching Annie with his eyes but using his other senses to see behind him. There was the rustling of footsteps in the frosty forest debris, but they were hesitant and quiet. Someone who didn't want to intrude…or didn't want Mycroft and Annie to know they were there. _

Mycroft heard the shuffling of feet before he saw anyone. He opened his eyes and took in the clearing again. The sun was still sinking in the crimson sky, lighting the forest around him in dancing shades of pink, red, and gold. The setting light caused the silent warders of the forest to cast odd shadows that played with his eyes. As his eyes adjusted in the glare, he saw the shape of two people moving along the tree line. A woman's voice called out.

"Thank you for arriving promptly, Mycroft." The voice was clear and sharp like the crackle of frost on a winter's morning. The two shapes—now he could see they were two women—stepped forward.

Mycroft's heart dropped into his shoes as he saw Anthea's pale and terrified face come into focus. There was a strip of dark cloth tied around her mouth and her hands were behind her back. Her clothes were rumpled, her hair had been pulled from the clean ponytail it had been in, and her naked feet stumbled over the uneven ground. She made no sounds and there were no tears, but the look she gave Mycroft spoke of terror and fear. The woman behind her pushed Anthea forward, causing her to stumble, but Mycroft didn't notice as the mystery woman's face finally shone under the moonlight.

Mycroft had seen a lot of things over the course of his life… some of them were downright shocking. But nothing he'd ever experienced before spoke to what happened when the woman's face finally was revealed. His heart lurched uncomfortably in his chest and his brain whistled like a boiling tea kettle.

"Valentina?" he whispered.

"_Valentina, what do you think you're doing here?" Mycroft intoned angrily as he gripped the woman's arm from behind. _

_Valentina gasped and spun around, not expecting to see Mycroft behind her. How the bloody hell had he managed to do that?! She resisted the urge to wrench her arm from his grasp, instead choosing to lean into the touch. He frowned and let go of her arm quickly, releasing it with a slight hiss. He withdrew from her space and Valentina's heart sank as the cold air enveloped her again. _

"_I asked you…what are you doing here?" Mycroft's voice was hard and as icy as the frosted forest around them. _

"_I followed you," she whispered. _

"_Obviously," he sneered. "Why?"_

_Valentina pushed her shoulders back and straightened up, clearly intending to give Mycroft a piece of her mind. "Annie isn't the right one for you. She doesn't understand you the way I do, Mycroft." She reached out tentatively, brushing a hand against his coat. "You belong with me." _

_Mycroft hissed and snatched his arm out of her reach. She retracted as if she'd been stung, clutching her hand and trying to keep the sobs within. Her voice was shaky as she spoke. "Please, Mycroft, you have to let me in. Annie is—'''_

_Her words were cut off as Annie's crystalline shriek echoed through the empty woods. Mycroft inhaled sharply and his head snapped up. Without even a backwards glance, he brushed by Valentina and dashed off through the woods. _

"_Annie!" he yelled. "Annie!" _

_When he reached the clearing, he was dismayed to see a hole in the middle of the ice and even more distressed when Annie was nowhere to be seen. He swallowed the panic and the fear that was rising in his stomach as he edged forward on to the slippery ice. He kept calling Annie's name, but she did not resurface. He had sunk to his knees and was crawling on the icy surface, wary of the spiderweb of cracks that had appeared under him. _

_Apparently the ice was not as stable as he thought, because all he heard was one little snick before he too was plunged into the icy water. There were no adjectives to describe the depth of the cold or the inkiness of the black water surrounding him. His lungs were already burning for oxygen but he couldn't see anything. He bumped into something solid as he flailed and he thought that he felt hair under his fingers. But then again….he couldn't really feel his fingers. _

_Something strong and hard grappled with the lapels of his jacket and he felt himself being pulled upwards. He tried to aid the sensation by attempting to pump his arms up and down, but he could barely feel those either. His head broke the surface of the water and he pulled air into his lungs, hissing as it burned. Mycroft had never experienced a feeling like this mind-numbing cold that was now upon him. He had trouble focusing his thoughts as Sherlock's face swam into view. _

"_S-sh-sherlock…" he stuttered. He felt his eighteen year old brother inhale sharply and press a cold hand to his cheek before disappearing again. Mycroft heard some vague splashing noises but he couldn't do anything except lay back on the ice and allow the cold to hollow him out from the inside. _

"_M-mycroft," Sherlock stammered. Mycroft twitched out from his stupor and somehow managed to turn his head slightly and it was enough to see Sherlock bending over another human…this one was apparently unconscious and not breathing, seeing as how Sherlock was clumsily doing chest compressions and breathing into her mouth. Mycroft was content to just lie back, but then his heart stopped as he realized who Sherlock was working on. Annie. _

_Mycroft utilized all of the energy he possessed to heave himself up and crawl over to Sherlock and Annie. Annie's skin was pale and her lips were blue and those incredible brown eyes were closed. He reached up and pushed a gentle finger on to the side of her neck, but felt no pulse. Sherlock had stopped the compressions and was sitting back on the ice, breathing heavily and visibly shaking from cold. Mycroft stared at him and Sherlock stared back, giving a minute shake of his head. _

_Mycroft's brain slipped quietly into insanity and stayed there. "Annie," he whispered. A gentle blackness surrounded him and he never heard Sherlock's stumbling voice calling his name. _

Mycroft was jerked back into the present by the sound of a gun being cocked. He looked up to see Valentina aiming the weapon at Anthea's head. Valentina gave her a little push forwards and Anthea stumbled and fell to her knees, the barrel of the handgun coming to rest on the back of her head. Mycroft stared at Valentina with more venom in his eyes than he possessed all those years ago in the woods.

"What do you want, Valentina?" Oh…déjà vu reigns again.

Valentina chuckled heartily. "Oh, Mycroft…what do we all ever want? Revenge…and money. I could have gone into this for just the revenge…but when you add in the monetary bonus you'd be surprised at how many people you can twist to do your bidding. You mention a little cash and revenge on the Holmes brothers and suddenly you're in charge of the criminal classes of London. Jim always made it seem like it was so difficult to manage, but really… it's not. It's absurdly simple, when you think about it. The world runs on money and sex, Mycroft. That's all it takes."

"I don't believe you answered my question, Valentina," Mycroft said. He was gripping his umbrella tightly in his right hand and driving the tip into the hard dirt.

Valentina laughed again. "Okay, simple terms then… I'm going to make an awful lot of money tonight, and it all revolves around your career collapsing and your secrets being aired in public. Money and revenge. Ta-da." She grinned wolfishly before pressing the gun more insistently into Anthea's head. "Checkmate, Mycroft. The queen reigns." Valentina held the gun to Anthea's head with her right hand and removed a mobile from her coat with her left.

"I believe we have some business to attend to," she said with a wicked smile.


	23. Decision

Ch. 21: Decision

Sherlock pushed open the doors of the study and strode into the dimly-lit room, John on his heels with his gun drawn but lingering at his side. They parted and swept over the room, checking for any signs of life. There was no one. Sherlock ran anxious fingers through his hair in frustration and John returned the firearm to the waistband of his jeans.

John opened his mouth as if to speak, but he never got the opportunity as the doors of the study were pushed open once again, flooding the dark room with light from the hall. A tall, elderly man with an impressive salt-and-pepper moustache stepped into the room and stood at attention, his hands clasped behind his back. Sherlock strode over to the man.

"Arthur," Sherlock murmured. He reached out one broad hand to the older man, who took it solemnly in his own.

"Sherlock," Arthur replied. Arthur had been working for the Holmes family for most of his adult life. He'd practically raised the two Holmes boys and the three of them had dispensed with the formalities of "sirs" and such long ago.

Sherlock stepped back a bit and allowed John to enter the space with the Arthur. "John, this is Arthur, our butler and right-hand man. Arthur, this is Dr. John Watson, my blogger and partner." The doctor and the butler shook hands.

"Where did Mycroft go, Arthur?" Sherlock asked.

"I am not sure, Sherlock. Our surveillance has him leaving the manor approximately forty-five minutes ago and heading towards the canal. He left his mobile here and managed to lose the tails we sent after him." Arthur pulled out the man's mobile and handed it to Sherlock. Arthur sniffed lightly. "My apologies for not being able to keep him inside, Sherlock."

Sherlock chuckled softly and put one hand on the man's shoulder. "I seem to recall that it was you who taught us how to avoid being found, Arthur. Does it honestly surprise you that he managed to disappear?"

Arthur returned the chuckle. "I suppose not. Mycroft was always a sneaky one."

Sherlock nodded absently while he studied Mycroft's mobile. "Arthur, would you please find us some reliable torches and a labeled map of the canal?"

Arthur inclined his head. "Of course." He moved out of the room as silently as he'd come. Sherlock pulled up Mycroft's messages. His phone had been on and not password protected, which told Sherlock Mycroft wanted him not only to see it but to use it. He searched a few moments before he found the relevant messages, nudging John with his elbow when he did. The two of them looked at the screen.

**I think it's time you and I had a chat, Mycroft.**

**5 February 1998. Don't be late. **

The two messages had been sent approximately an hour ago. Sherlock scrolled through the other applications on the phone to see if Mycroft had left any other instructions.

He had.

**I won't lose another, Sherlock. **

000000000000

Mycroft dropped his umbrella as he raised both hands to catch the mobile that Valentina threw at him. She took a few steps closer to him, nudging Anthea along in front of her, who closed the distance by sliding forward on her knees. Mycroft could see the pain etched in her eyes but the brave woman still made no sounds nor shed any tears.

Valentina nodded her head at the mobile. "The passwords for the treaty documents, if you would, please."

Mycroft stared at her. This really couldn't be all she wanted, right? Passwords? It would be all too simple to just give her the wrong codes and it would be over. The documents were not physically on the device in his hands, so it's not like he was going to have to prove anything…he could give false codes and take Anthea and get out. He swiftly tapped a series of numbers and letters into the device (the passwords were all random alpha-numeric). He tossed the mobile back to Valentina, who caught it neatly in one hand.

"Thank you, Mycroft." She studied the mobile before tapping out a message.

"Let her go," Mycroft demanded, his voice like oiled steel.

Valentina tutted and clicked her tongue. "Patience, Mycroft." She held up the mobile as a message buzzed in. There was an ever so-slight twitch that appeared under her left eye as she read the message. Mycroft held his breath. Suddenly, he was all too aware that his plan had failed. He should have known that she'd have someone on the other end waiting to check the passwords. _Stupid, stupid, stupid!_

Valentina was smiling at him and something in his stomach hardened into iron. Suddenly, Valentina was pulling something else out of her coat pocket—a hypodermic needle, he saw—and jamming the instrument into Anthea's neck. Anthea cried out into the gag in her mouth and flinched away, falling over and trying to squirm away from her captor. Valentina merely pulled out the needle and let Anthea lay there.

"Oh…I think I forgot to mention this part," Valentina offered. "I've just injected our lovely Anthea with venom from the black mamba snake…a little present from a friend." Mycroft momentarily forgot how to breathe as he watched Anthea begin to cough and gasp on the ground. He knew the mamba toxin was lethal and could kill within 30 minutes if the dosage was high enough and the antivenom not administered in time.

Valentina removed another hypodermic. "Give me the correct codes, Mycroft, and I'll give her the antivenom." She smiled again, but there was a gleam of malicious determination behind that smile. "You shouldn't have tried to play me, Mycroft. Now…are you going to give me the correct codes or will you let Anthea perish here as punishment for your own selfishness?" She tossed the mobile back to him and he caught it. Time seemed to stretch and morph around them.

00000000000

John's heart was beating wildly in his chest as they ran down the forest path. He could hear Sherlock's heavy breathing and John was glad that he wasn't the only one who was having trouble getting oxygen into his lungs. He figured they'd run about a mile or so thus far, maybe a little less…distance seemed so much longer when they weren't dodging the obstacles of the streets and alleys of London. A straight out sprint in the forests of Woking was something neither of them was used to.

John felt the stitch in his side throb painfully and every breath was beginning to hurt more and more. He slowed and stopped, hunching over and grabbing his knees with his hands as little black stars danced in his vision. He heard Sherlock's feet crunching over the fallen leaves as the man came to stand beside him. The detective's labored breathing echoed in his brain.

"John," Sherlock gasped. "You…you…okay?"

"Yeah," John panted. "Just…just a stitch…in my side…hurts."

Sherlock nodded and worked to get his frantic breathing under control. Running was a part of their job…really, there was an obscene amount of running involved all around London. But there was something different about running full-out down a clear trail in the woods, dodging nothing but the occasional tree branch. It was simultaneously invigorating and exhausting.

John's voice reached his ears and it was more controlled and steady. "So…where are we going again?"

Sherlock exhaled deeply and pulled out the map. He pointed to a rectangle. "Here…"

John shook his head. Obviously Sherlock had missed the implied question. "Okay, why?"

Sherlock took a couple of breaths through his nose before staring off into the woods. "1998. I was eighteen and Mycroft was twenty-five and had been working in the government for about two years. He and a friend—Annie Harrison—were visiting our manor in Woking for Arthur's birthday. It was February and it had been absolutely freezing and snowing for days. Annie liked to skate…Mycroft brought her here so that she could skate on the frozen retainment pond here."

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose as he continued. "Annie, she…the ice broke under her and she fell in. The shock from the water must have paralyzed her momentarily. She drowned…" Sherlock paused and John watched him, curious about the effect that the story was having on Sherlock. "Mycroft tried to go after her, but the ice broke under him too and he fell in."

John stared. "How did he get out? And why wasn't he with Annie from the start?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Mycroft has never had athletic inclinations, John. I believe he was content to watch Annie skate. He had left the pond because they'd been followed. I know because I followed the person following them. They'd left the manor and as I watched them go, I noticed someone disappear into the woods after them. I was curious and…went after them. Mycroft must have left Annie for a moment to confront the person. I'd lost their trail momentarily when I heard Annie scream. I arrived in the clearing in time to see Mycroft go under. I pulled him out…he was freezing, but breathing. I went in after Annie and dragged her out too but… she was already gone."

John's mouth was hanging open slightly and the skin between his eyebrows was furrowed with disbelief. "My god… that's awful."

Sherlock huffed a breath. "The Holmes are not good with sentiment as a rule, John. But we all knew that Annie was…something incredible. I imagine that Annie was to Mycroft the way you are to me." Sherlock turned his gaze upon John and even though John couldn't quite see his eyes…he knew the look he was being given.

"So…" John began. "Whatever happened to the person that was following them?"

Sherlock clicked his tongue. "I'm fairly certain it's the person that's been instigating this game with us. Perhaps it was someone making a play for Mycroft's affections and was there to confront him over Annie. That would certainly explain the more…personal touches to the crimes being committed, don't you think? Money, treason, passion, revenge… the axis upon which the world turns."

John's brain hummed with the certainty of Sherlock's words. It certainly made sense. He took a steadying breath and eyed his partner. Wordlessly, they broke into a solid jog and continued along the path, both men now fully aware of what the phrase "hell hath no fury like a woman scorned" meant. The sun continued to sink low in the sky, painting their journey with murderous shades of dusky pink and gold.

00000000000

Mycroft looked between the phone in his hands and the writhing woman on the ground. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a clock began to tick loudly as his mind started the mental tennis match between the mobile and the woman. He could feel the dual parts of his brain battling like two knights engaged in furious swordplay. One side of him was screaming in frustration for his own sense of self-preservation and for the sense of duty to queen and country. That side told him that surely Anthea's sacrifice would be noble if it served to keep the contents of the treaty out of the hands of their enemies. The other side was making it plain that his sense of duty was actually just a contorted illusion of his own selfishness. There was no way Anthea should die for this… she hadn't signed up for that.

The internal battle raged and Mycroft lost track of the time…maybe it had been minutes…maybe only seconds since Valentina had tossed him the phone, he didn't know anymore. He went back and forth between the mobile, the woman, and Anthea…the mobile, the woman, Anthea…the mobile, the woman, Anthea… it was all starting to blend into a whirling circus in his mind. This really was it… the decision that made a man who he was. The decision that would tell him what kind of a person he was and what he was capable of doing. His mind drifted and settled on a filmy memory of Annie…with the moonlight in her hair and that look of joyous ecstasy on her face. Annie had been his rock…his anchor…the single flame from which he drew his fire. He wondered if Annie would be proud of the man he'd become…and whether she'd be proud of the man he was going to be now.

With a groan of pure frustration, he ground his fingers into the hard keys of the mobile, entering the correct passwords. He flung the mobile back to Valentina, who caught it with a single hand. Valentina smiled a wide smile as she looked at the codes and sent another message out.

"For god's sake, give her the antivenom, please, they're the right codes," Mycroft pleaded.

Valentina clicked her tongue. "Patience, Mycroft." The seconds pulled by like taffy in the summer heat, stretching into long strings and oozing over into physical reality. The phone pinged and Valentina chuckled when she read the message. She leaned down to Anthea and Mycroft waited, his breath coming in furious little heaves.

He wasn't in any way prepared for what Valentina did next.

She pushed a gentle toe into Anthea's ribs and said, "Alright, Persephone, you can stop now."


	24. Explanations

Ch. 22: Explanations

John and Sherlock skidded into the clearing in time to watch two things happen.

The first thing they saw was Mycroft Holmes ungraciously sinking to his knees in the forest detritus, his face waxen and his eyes wide and staring.

The second thing they saw was Anthea. She had been moaning, gasping, and writhing on the ground, apparently in ferocious amounts of pain. But now, she stopped and stood up, releasing her hands from the loose knots around her wrists and removing the cloth gag from her mouth. As the two men came to a sliding halt in the clearing, she removed a handgun from the waistband of her trousers and aimed it at the two men while the other woman in the glade kept her weapon trained on Mycroft. John reached for his gun.

"Don't, Dr. Watson," Anthea said, her voice ringing in the silent space. John froze and Anthea walked a little closer to him. She held the weapon like a professional.

"Take out your gun and toss it down, Dr. Watson," she commanded him. John threw a glance at Sherlock, but Sherlock was staring at Anthea like he was attempting to burn a hole in her skull with her mind. John hesitated.

Anthea pointed her weapon at Sherlock's chest and cocked the gun. "Now, John."

John's lips compressed into a thin, furious line, but he slowly removed the gun from his jeans and threw it at her feet. Anthea bent to pick it up without ever taking her eyes away from the two men. She beckoned them to join Mycroft with a nod of her head. When neither of them moved, she took a step closer to them, this time training both guns on them. Sherlock and John shuffled over to where Mycroft was still kneeling in the dirt. Anthea tossed John's weapon into the pond, where it landed with a soft splash.

Valentina clicked her tongue. "How very naughty of you, Dr. Watson. That's very illegal, you know."

John's hand curled into a tight fist. "Yeah, well you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?"

The woman chuckled, nudging Anthea with her elbow. "This one's funny, Persephone…we should keep him."

"Persephone…" Sherlock muttered. "Queen of the underworld."

Persephone smiled. "Rather fitting, don't you think?"

Sherlock grunted. "I supposed this would be your Hades then?" He nodded to the woman next to Persephone.

"Her name is Valentina." Everyone looked as Mycroft spoke for the first time since the arrival of the detective and the doctor.

Valentina smiled and gave a little bow. "Indeed I am, Mycroft." She inclined her head to the three men. "Valentina Moran, at your service."

Sherlock started visibly, John's mouth dropped in shock, and Mycroft paled. Both Valentina and Persephone burst into a fit of giggles.

"What's the matter, boys?!" Persephone teased. "Did the great Holmes brothers and their little pet not see that one coming?!"

"How…?" Sherlock stammered, unable to fully process the revelation. He'd spent three years tracking down Moriarty's criminals, including Sebastian Moran, but this woman had never once crossed his radar. How could he have missed her?

"Please," Valentina said with a hint of acid in her voice. "Did you honestly think Jim was going to let you unravel his web completely? Did you honestly believe that he and Sebastian didn't plan for that?" She chuckled lowly and took a few steps around, pacing comfortably as she talked. "My brother was always my best-kept secret…and I was his. I worked as an aide in the some of the farthest reaches of the British government and he was the right-hand man of the most infamous criminal in England. Jim Moriarty knew he would fall taking you down, Sherlock Holmes. You were…his passion and his weakness. You fascinated him just as much as I'm sure he fascinated you."

Valentina looked at Persephone before she continued. "Before the…incident on St. Bart's roof, Jim made sure that Seb had a solid plan for his kingdom and it was brilliant. It would have all been so perfect…except for one little thing. You didn't take the fall the way you were supposed to. Instead, you chose to make yourself a pure nuisance in the true Holmes fashion."

Valentina let her weapon fall as she continued with her monologue, gesturing with that hand and thus waving the weapon about wildly. "Seb had recruited me several years prior as a spy inside the government. He came to me when he found out you were still living and were tracking down all of our associates and killing them. He figured you'd come for him eventually, and he was determined that you'd never find me and by god, Sebastian Moran was a man of his word." She paused as her voice grew thick with emotion.

"When you killed him…oh, Sherlock Holmes, when you killed Sebastian Moran… you opened the proverbial Pandora's box. The troupe of criminals that had been left to Sebastian fell to me as I suddenly became the head of a felonious organization of the most disgusting, lawless men and women you've ever met. My gut reaction was to of course use this network of felons to exact my revenge upon you for what you had done to my brother and to Jim, who was one of my friends. But then… then I thought that there might be something more I could get out of it. You see…the Holmes family has been….terribly inconsiderate to me for a very long time, and it all started with your dear brother Mycroft in the late 1990s when we were working together.

I'm afraid to admit that I was terribly infatuated with you, Mycroft, and had been for a long time. You have no idea how much your consistent rejection broke my heart." Valentina was practically hissing her words now. Persephone's lips were thinned into a distressed line as her associate told her tale. The three men were absolutely stunned and frankly speechless.

"When you… annihilated and shunned me after Annie's death, I almost… I didn't know whether I wanted to go on with my life. You were everything to me and I was nothing to you. No one can live like that for long, Mycroft. It was then in my grief that Sebastian came to me and asked me to work for him and Jim as a spy and I took it up with relish. Someone wanted me. Seb had always watched over me, but this Jim Moriarty…he needed me. He wanted me and that felt…righteous." Valentina smiled and paused in her pacing, deciding on her words.

"And then…another Holmes came forward and took that feeling of being needed away from me. You, Sherlock, stole that from me when Jim fell and you took Sebastian away from me. I was so furious… the mere mention of the name Holmes was enough to drive me into insanity. And they say when you reach rock bottom…it's a solid foundation for rebuilding your life. That's when I decided to take matters into my own hands and destroy the Holmes family as well as earn my place at the head of Jim and Seb's organization."

Valentina walked over and placed an arm around Persephone's waist. "I'd met dear Persephone during the meetings for the naval treaty. I was an aide and she was an aide, and I believe we got to be good friends during those long hours waiting on our bosses. Imagine my delight when I discovered that she worked for the very man that I was attempting to destroy. I think it was fairly easy to convince her that Mycroft was… a parasite…a tick that needed to be lanced."

Mycroft spoke again and his voice was low and thick. "How did you manage that, exactly?"

It was Persephone that answered. "Please, Mycroft. You are not the easiest person to work for, what with your Holmes superiority complex and your daft habits and your annoying observations and deductions, not to mention your irascible little brother. And then there was also the part where Valentina offered me an obscene amount of money to work for her. Money and sex makes the world go round, Mycroft." She chuckled as Valentina leaned over to kiss her cheek.

"And now," Valentina said, "I've got everything I've ever wanted. Mycroft was nice enough to hand over the passwords for the treaty documents and that's going to make us richer than we'd ever imagined. And now I've got both Holmes brothers in front of me and the loyal Dr. Watson thrown in as a bonus. It's like Christmas."

Sherlock chuckled softly, drawing looks from every person in the clearing. "Oh, excellent, Ms. Moran," he said teasingly. "Really…impressive work, I commend you."

Valentina Moran pulled her weapon up and aimed it at Sherlock. "What's so funny, Sherlock?"

That made Sherlock laugh even harder, which actually made John and Mycroft a little more uncomfortable and even set the two women on edge. The man grinned and said, "It's so transparent, really. Revenge? So boring! Impressive, I'll give you that, but so dull in the long run, don't you think?"

Valentina leveled her weapon and stared down the tall man. "Oh Sherlock…you've interfered again, haven't you? Tell me what you've done." Her voice brooked no arguments.

Sherlock folded his arms against his chest and wrinkled his nose. "I do so hate explaining myself."

No one was prepared when Valentina coolly swung her gun around, lowered it slightly, and squeezed off a round that slammed into John's right thigh. John collapsed with a pained yelp, his hands flying to the wound. Sherlock sobered instantly and fell to his knees beside the doctor. Mycroft shuffled over as well, but Persephone moved forward and motioned him back with her weapon.

Sherlock's hands were fluttering over John's leg and he felt bile rising into his throat as he combatted panic, fear, and immediate guilt. "John, oh my god, John please…" He took off his scarf and tied it tightly around the wound. The blood seeped through faster than he anticipated. John was pale and shivering and clutching Sherlock's coat with one hand and his thigh muscles with the other.

Valentina walked forward enough so that Sherlock could see her in his peripheral vision. She was aiming the gun at John's head.

"Didn't I mention that my brother also taught me how to shoot a gun?" She cocked the handgun, the click of the mechanism lighting a fire deep in Sherlock's stomach. He kept a hand pressed to the bloody injury in John's thigh while he turned his head to stare down the woman standing beside him. His eyes were pure grey fire but hers were an Arctic blue that sent shivers down his spine. He saw Sebastian Moran in those eyes and their final encounter played through his mind. He found himself filled with a flurry of contemptible emotions but the one that played out the strongest was cold, unmitigated wrath for this woman, this traitor who had shot John, destroyed Mycroft, stole state secrets, and teased up a whole new generation of filth that Sherlock had to chase through the gutters of London as they committed their sins. He'd never felt such fire in his veins as he did now…even his loathing of James Moriarty paled in comparison to this.

Valentina leaned closer and whispered, "Tell. me."

Sherlock was calculating how much force he'd need to exert to lift himself off the ground and wrench the gun from her hands when a new and unexpected voice rang through the clearing.

"You'll be wanting to put that away now, my dear lady," the voice said.

Both Holmes brothers looked up in shock. _Arthur…._

**A/N: Poor John... he gets beat up so much. I'll try to get new chapters posted soon so that you don't have more cliffhangers ruining your life...but admittedly we're a little used to that, right? ;)  
**


	25. Dissolve

Ch. 23: Dissolve

* * *

The next couple of seconds were a blur.

**One**. Everyone jumps at the sound of the unexpected voice.

**Two**. Valentina and Persephone begin to turn to face the newcomer.

**Three**. Sherlock begins to pivot on the ball of his left foot where he is crouched.

**Four**. John notices Sherlock's movement.

**Five**. Mycroft makes eye contact with Sherlock.

**Six**. Valentina and Persephone face Arthur.

**Seven**. Arthur shifts his weight between his feet.

**Eight**. Sherlock and Mycroft are on their feet.

**Nine**. John exhales sharply.

**Ten**. Valentina and Persephone aim their weapons.

**Eleven**. Arthur smiles.

**Twelve**. Sherlock and Mycroft seize Valentina and Persephone from behind.

**Thirteen**. Lestrade appears beside John with his weapon out and his mouth shouting words.

**Fourteen**. Sherlock sweeps his leg and Valentina lands hard on the ground.

**Fifteen**. Mycroft has wrenched the gun out of Persephone's hands but she's landed an elbow to his jaw.

**Sixteen**. Sherlock is on top of Valentina and they're wrestling for control and the gun.

**Seventeen**. Lestrade is yelling at Persephone and aiming his weapon at her. Mycroft attacks her knees and topples her over.

**Eighteen**. John is crawling towards Sherlock and Valentina. Valentina still has the gun. She's smiling.

**Nineteen**. Valentina sticks the gun in her mouth. John yells. Sherlock stares.

**Twenty**. A shot. Silence. Persephone's agonized sob. John's heavy breathing. Sherlock's stare. Mycroft's groan. Lestrade's curse. Arthur's sigh.

**Twenty-one**. Checkmate.

00000000000

John was a little bewildered at how fast the standoff had dissolved. Arthur had distracted the two women enough for Sherlock and Mycroft to grab them from behind and attempt to wrestle their weapons away. John's blood boiled at the memory of the two of them merely glancing at each other before making their move. It was deliberate, reckless, dangerous, dumb, and foolish. Hell, knowing them, they'd probably calculated their chances of failure in the .076 seconds before they decided to move! There was absolutely no way that could have worked…no…way…

John eyed his partner and Mycroft suspiciously from his perch on the litter on the ground beside the ambulance. The two men were talking to Arthur and Lestrade while John had been carted off to the medics. He was grateful for the attention his wound was receiving, but to be frank he was grumpy, tired, sore, confused, and right now he just wanted his bloody boyfriend to be standing beside him and playing with his hair while they went to the hospital. (He also wanted said boyfriend to explain what the hell had been going on. Clearly, they'd been up to something. John had a feeling in his gut and he'd learned to trust that gut.)

As if sensing John's telepathic messages, Sherlock ears fairly perked up and he swiveled his head to face John. John noticed that Sherlock's eyes were still a little vacant and his mouth (when not talking) was set into a default position of 'distressed thin line'. John knew they were going to eventually have to talk about the whole Valentina-blew-her-brains-out-in-front-of-everyone thing…but he didn't want to do it right now. Sherlock grew oddly possessive of John whenever John was injured or ill and that possessiveness (although admittedly adorable) also made the detective short and ill-tempered (more so than usual) around others. Besides…John was exhausted.

John noticed that Sherlock had excused himself from the little campfire chat and was making his way towards the ambulance, but John's attention had been turned to a point beyond them. A stern-looking policeman was escorting a handcuffed Anthea (Persephone?) to the waiting car. The look on Anthea's face made John shiver down to the very marrow of his bones. It was the look of a woman who had completely surrendered her will. There was no trace of the fire that had been Anthea…the enigmatic and quirky woman who had worked for Mycroft Holmes. There was no trace even of the woman who had been Persephone…the mysterious spy working for money and revenge. The look was of a woman who had lost her identity. She was no longer Anthea and she was no longer Persephone. She'd relied so heavily on Valentina and Mycroft for her sense of self-worth that when she lost them both…she had nowhere to go. She was a woman without herself and that was reflected in the deadness of her eyes and the slackness of her facial muscles. She looked…empty.

John jumped as Sherlock's rumbly baritone muttered in his ear. "I imagine Mycroft's background checks into his employees will be getting much more thorough."

John ground his ear into his shoulder trying to itch the tickle his voice produced. Sherlock only chuckled and knelt to come to John's eye level. They just stared at each other for a few seconds…brilliant grey-green meeting and holding pearly blue. Then, Sherlock gave John a small half-smile before placing an ungloved hand alongside his face, caressing the skin with a long thumb. John unconsciously sighed and leaned into his partner's touch.

"Can we go home now?" John asked fuzzily. The painkillers the medics had given him plus the exhaustion and the cold were starting to do funny things to his brain.

Sherlock gave John one of his rare, genuine smiles before leaning in to kiss John's forehead with the lightest of touches. "After we get you to the hospital, John," he whispered. "You do have a hole in your leg."

John looked down as if he'd forgotten that little detail. "Oh…yeah. Okay then." And with that he settled back into the litter, his eyes fluttering shut in exhaustion.

Sherlock moved to stand up and rejoin the others when he felt a hand on his sleeve. He looked down to see John grasping at the wool coat, but his eyes were still closed.

"Sherlock?" he questioned.

"Yes?" Sherlock replied.

John cracked one eye open and looked at him. "When I get this hole in my leg filled, I'm going to need for you to explain to me just what the hell you and Mycroft thought you were doing back there."

Sherlock frowned. "What ever do you mean, John?"

It was John's turn to frown and he wrenched his eyes open so it would be more effective. "I mean," he said, "the part where you and Mycroft went off half-cocked and pulled that foolhardy stunt against two clearly trained people with guns."

Sherlock grunted. "You make it sound as if we weren't trained, John. I can assure you that we both knew what we were doing." He touched John's nose with a pointer finger. "Besides…it worked…after a fashion."

John gave Sherlock an intentional look. "We're going to have to talk about that, too."

Sherlock made a tsking sound but John shushed him with a finger to his lips. "That's an order, Mr. Holmes," John muttered. He didn't even register Sherlock's half-amused, half-outraged stutter before he pulled the detective down by his coat lapels and kissed him into next Tuesday.

**A/N: Hey there. So...I don't know how to write fight scenes. :) Not good ones, anyway. If aforementioned fight sequence is totally horrid, please let me know. **


	26. Exposition

**Dear reader, **

**Prepare thyself for an unearthly long chapter. **

**I wrote this very late in the evening under the influence of jasmine tea and dark chocolate so if there's something that totally does not make sense, let me know. I've reread it like seven times and it makes sense to me, but that doesn't mean a damn thing now does it? **

**Thank you! You're amazing, fantastic! **

* * *

Ch. 24: Exposition

The next afternoon found Sherlock, Mycroft, Lestrade, and Arthur in John's hospital room, where the good doctor was lying with a thick, white bandage wrapped around his thigh and a cluster of beeping machines around his bed. As fortune would have it, the bullet had only penetrated the meat of John's thigh and come out cleanly on the other side, completely missing the major arteries and the bone. As bullet wounds went, this was the good kind. He'd be back on his feet in a few weeks and with some physical therapy he most likely wouldn't need to use a cane to walk.

The five men were clustered around like some sort of war committee and John was half-wondering whether he shouldn't offer to take notes or at least find a stenographer. As it was, John was self-consciously toying with the ties of his hospital gown, wishing he could put some actual clothes on. Sherlock was staring at John, also thinking that the gown should go, but Sherlock's plan didn't have other clothes on the other end of it. Mycroft was studying his mobile and gently tapping a finger against the end of his umbrella. Arthur was sipping a cup of tea (a real cup of tea from a thermos…he'd been in enough hospitals to know that the dishwater they tried to pass as tea would never do). Lestrade was idly tapping his fingers on the arm of his chair, waiting for someone to start the ball rolling.

"Shut up," Sherlock muttered.

All of the other men in the room raised their eyebrows simultaneously. Sherlock stared at one of them after another.

"You're all thinking too loud. It's putting me off." He sniffed regally and studied the fingernails of his left hand.

Lestrade sighed. "Well, perhaps then you'd like to start off this…" Lestrade waved his hand around. "Whatever this is."

Sherlock eyed the detective inspector with a frown. "Perhaps you'd like to start by telling me why you're here. I thought you were in Scotland."

Lestrade had the decency to blush and avert his eyes. He cleared his throat and said, "Well… that wasn't entirely true."

Sherlock snorted. "Obviously."

"To be fair, I did go to Scotland," he said. "But I'd been back for a while. I was hip-deep in backlogged paperwork when you called and I was irritated and so I lied." He shrugged a shoulder.

"So how did you come to be at Basingstoke Canal with us?" Mycroft asked.

"That would be my doing, boys," Arthur said. Everyone looked at him and he shrugged. "After I discovered Mycroft had gone, I placed a few calls. I was put in touch with Detective Inspector Lestrade here and he agreed to come to Woking. He arrived shortly after you and John, Sherlock."

"How did you know where we'd gone?" John asked. Truth be known, they hadn't told Arthur where they were going specifically.

Arthur looked playfully scandalized. "Honestly, you young ones think you're the only clever ones… I had seen the messages on Mycroft's phone as well, you know. But I could not for the life of me remember where precisely poor Annie had departed from us." Arthur stopped and bowed his head thoughtfully. "After the detective inspector arrived, I suddenly remembered something…a precaution I took several years ago."

Sherlock suddenly broke into a fit of chuckles and even Mycroft let a small grin play out on his face. John and Lestrade shared a confused glance.

"What?" John asked. "What precaution?"

Mycroft tapped the end of his umbrella into the floor. "A GPS device in my umbrella, Arthur?"

Arthur sipped his tea before he spoke. "Well, you never go anywhere without the bloody things…"

This earned a laugh from everyone in the room. John was the first to sober up.

"Look," John said. "I just thought we all needed to sit down and flesh out whatever this has been for the past few months. I don't understand half of what happened myself or how it all ties together, but I have the strangest feeling that you two do." At this, he eyeballed the Holmes brothers and crossed his arms over his chest.

Mycroft raised an elegant eyebrow at John, but he inhaled slowly and then inclined his head towards John.

"Fine, John," Mycroft said. "What would you like to know?"

John ogled him for a moment, a little unbelieving that he was going to get full disclosure without having to fight for it. "Umm, okay," he started. "I think we should start with the elephant in the room. Valentina Moran?"

Sherlock tensed and looked at Mycroft. "I find myself also wanting to know about this, brother. I spent three years tracking down Moriarty's band of merry men and not once did I ever hear the name Valentina Moran. Did you know that Sebastian Moran had a sister?"

"He doesn't," Mycroft said. "Not technically, anyway. It would appear that Sebastian Moran was Valentina's stepbrother. When her mother remarried, Valentina kept the mother's last name due to an ostensible hatred towards her stepfather. It would seem, however, that she was endeared towards her stepbrother. When Valentina entered adulthood and became a cog in the British government, she kept her mother's last name—Holdhurst—and used it professionally."

"But how was the familial relation not listed anywhere?" John asked. "Even if Valentina had used a different surname, wouldn't have Sebastian's records listed a stepfamily?"

Mycroft gave John an even stare. "She worked for the government, John. Although her position is not nearly as…influential as mine, I have no doubt that Valentina was able to eradicate any part of Moran's record that she wished. Perhaps she had friends or associates in the correct department. Perhaps she paid someone off. Let's not even mention the fact that she was involved with Jim Moriarty, the consulting criminal, who clearly extorted their relation for his own use."

"And even when Moriarty fell and Moran took over, they had to hide it even deeper to assure that I would not find them," Sherlock said.

"Indeed," Mycroft agreed.

John shook his head. "I still don't understand how you didn't know about that, Mycroft. You're the bloody British government, after all. And, I understand that you knew Valentina from the early days of your career. You really didn't know anything?"

Mycroft stared at a spot on John's blankets for a long moment before he spoke. "I hardly knew Valentina when we were younger. We worked in the same office but she was not as…politically motivated as I was. I took chances and opportunities to advance but she had a tendency to blend into the background and I can't say that I ever gave her more than a passing glance. She however, had a distressing adolescent crush on me." Mycroft's lips twisted around the word 'crush' like he was sucking on a lemon. "I never inquired after her background, and after…" Mycroft took a deep breath. "After Annie died, I couldn't be bothered with her anymore. I simply…deleted her existence, as it were."

Sherlock was nodding absentmindedly, understanding the mechanics involved in deletion. John seemed a little more accepting of that explanation.

"Okay," Lestrade said. "What about Anthea? Or…Persephone?"

The only sign of Mycroft's distress was a quick compression of his lips. Sherlock took the liberty of answering for him.

"Anthea was most forthcoming after she was imprisoned. Her story is much like Valentina described to us. Valentina pursued a friendship with Anthea, perhaps something a little more than that as well. Working for Mycroft is indeed a…unique experience, and I'm sure that Anthea must have mentioned a few of the quirkier aspects to Valentina. All it took was a steady build-up of horror stories and then Valentina would ask Anthea if she'd like a chance to get back at Mycroft. Throw in a healthy monetary investment and suddenly you have yourself an accomplice."

"I never thought I treated her that poorly," Mycroft said softly. Sherlock glanced at his brother with an absolutely unreadable expression on his face. Mycroft looked…downtrodden, if that were entirely possible for someone who had sworn off sentiment. It was nothing compared to the grief that Sherlock had seen when Annie died, but there was still…something there. He wondered why…oh. Something lurched uncomfortably in his heart when he thought about how Anthea had been like an extension of Mycroft's arm…or umbrella. Anthea had been more than his assistant; she'd been…his Anthea. Sherlock thought about how he often introduced John as his blogger or his doctor or his partner, but there was so much more than that. John was…his John. Even before they'd become lovers, they'd been friends and partners and companions and if John had turned on Sherlock the way Anthea had turned on Mycroft…Sherlock shuddered. When he refocused his eyes, he felt John's gaze on him. When he turned to look at his…his John, he could practically hear the assurances being uttered even though John never made a sound.

Arthur had laid a hand on Mycroft's sleeve. "It takes a special person to work for or with a Holmes without going completely mad, Mycroft." Arthur turned to face John and he gave the younger man an exaggerated wink. "Trust me; I've been doing it for a long time. You boys are the most unique people in all of Great Britain and certainly the most irritating." Arthur fixed the two Holmes' with a grandfatherly look. "Working with a Holmes man is both a blessing and a curse. You are both endowed with marvelous mental and physical gifts and strong personalities that most people do not understand. People fear and condemn what they do not understand. That's why you are blessed to have people like Detective Inspector Lestrade and Dr. Watson here, and perhaps even an old man like me. We may not completely understand you all the time, but we appreciate your… quirks." Arthur smiled at the two men and then focused on Mycroft. "Mycroft, do not let Anthea's duplicity lead you to believe that you were being neglectful. You are many things, Mycroft, but neglectful is not one of them. Anthea made her choices."

The two Holmes brothers—all angles and grey eyes and piercing stares—looked at the other people in the room. The look on John's face could only be described as tender. Lestrade was giving them a sincere smile that was laced with a hint of 'Oh you are so going to owe me when this is over'. Mycroft laid a thin hand on top of Arthur's where it perched on his sleeve. "Thank you, Arthur," he whispered. Sherlock hummed his agreement. Silence reigned for a few moments while everyone processed.

"So," John broke in, "what about the naval treaty? If we've accounted for Anthea and Valentina, how does in to the theft of the naval treaty? Or the murder of the Estonian ambassador or the bombing of that Iranian market?"

Lestrade frowned. "You mean those events are all tied together?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Of course they are. Where have you been for the past six months? Dear god, what is it like in your funny little brain?" Lestrade was gaping at the man, John face-palmed, and Arthur tittered softly. Sherlock frowned. "What?" he insisted.

"And the moment's gone," John muttered. He rubbed absently at the muscle around his bandaged thigh. Sherlock shot him a nervous, questioning gaze, but John shook his head. The skin only itched. "So tell us, Sherlock," John continued. "How does the naval treaty tie in to all of this?"

Sherlock stood and began to pace in the small space by John's bed. "We can assume that after I took down Sebastian Moran, Valentina asserted herself as the head of the organization, she told us as much herself. Why would Moran and Moriarty leave her in charge? Well, it's obvious that they trusted her a great deal, plus she'd been a spy for them inside the government for quite some time. Now, from what I could deduce about her and from what I know about Moriarty and Moran, I believe that this scheme had been in the works for quite some time. As a consulting criminal, Moriarty could hardly resist an opportunity to blackmail his government for obscene amounts of money, not to mention that rendering them powerless would have given him the rush he desired. So the original idea was Moriarty's, but the planning and execution fell to Moran and his sister after Moriarty died. All they needed was the right opportunity."

"An opportunity," Mycroft interjected, "that presented itself when the treaty committee was formed. Valentina worked for one of the representatives on the committee. The committee's purpose was secret, but even the best kept secrets can always find a way out. Our aides were not exactly privy to the information being presented…but obviously she found a way to discover what we were discussing."

"So," Sherlock picked up, "when Valentina discovered that a top secret naval treaty was being drafted with a foreign nation, it was a perfect opportunity to formulate and execute the plan that had been conceived. The only twist was now that she had sole control over the…company, as it were, she could also use the plan to exact revenge on Mycroft. I'm guessing by this time she'd already established some sort of friendship with Anthea and when all of the right pieces fell into her lap, she couldn't resist making the puzzle. The events that led up to the theft of the treaty all served dual purposes. Andrus' involvement perhaps shows us how she acquired her information. I'm not suggesting that Andrus was involved, but perhaps someone on his staff had ties with her and Andrus found them out. His unique murder ensured that I would get involved and by extension, almost everyone that was connected to Mycroft Holmes. The burglary on Godolphin Street was a distraction. The explosion at the Iranian market was a threat and a scare tactic."

"And the kidnapped ministers?" Lestrade asked. "And what happened with John and me…"

"The ministers were all explained through their ties to the naval committee and Valentina's desperation to find the treaty documents themselves. You can't get paid if you don't deliver the goods, so she was getting anxious for answers. She had the ministers kidnapped and tortured to see if they could provide those answers. As we established before, we can theorize that your own kidnapping and torture was a warning. Valentina was telling us that we were getting too close and—in hindsight—told us who she was aiming for." Sherlock swallowed heavily. "If either you, John, or you, Lestrade, would have been irreparably damaged… I would have been… mildly irrational and that certainly would have fallen into Mycroft's lap."

"Well," Mycroft added, "I like to believe that they are my…friends…as well, Sherlock." John worked doubly hard to keep his mouth from dropping open. Lestrade wasn't so disciplined.

"Indeed," Sherlock said. "Anyway, one of the ministers clearly provided the answers to what Valentina sought, because it was not long after that the memory stick with the treaty documents disappeared from Mycroft's office."

"Do you know how that happened, then?" John asked. Had it only been 24 hours since they'd started working on that particular problem?

"It's all rather simple and obvious now that we know about Anthea, isn't it?" Sherlock asked.

The certainty slammed into John's brain. Of course…they hadn't suspected Anthea because…she was Anthea! Mycroft had assumed that she knew nothing about the treaty documents in the first place. The signs of her presence in Mycroft's office, Sherlock had attributed to the fact that she was his assistant and in the office all the time.

"Simple," John muttered. "But how'd she know where to find it?"

Mycroft shrugged. "She wasn't exactly forthcoming with that information, but she is…was… in and out of my office frequently and not always accompanied by me. She is rather intelligent and I have no doubt that it didn't take much for her to discover where it was."

"Sounds like you need better surveillance in your office, Mycroft," Lestrade put it in with a small smile.

Mycroft looked scandalized. "Or just better hiding spots," he muttered.

"And the buzzing?" John asked. "Did she just…accidentally hit the button while she was under there?"

Sherlock nodded. "So it would seem."

There was a stretch of silence as all five men in the room processed all of the information they'd received. Sherlock eventually moved to sit on the edge of John's bed, careful not to bump anything important. John appeared to be deep in thought but didn't miss the opportunity to nudge Sherlock gently with his toes. He also didn't miss the small smile that played on Sherlock's lips as he did so. Mycroft had become engrossed in his mobile again. Arthur had closed his eyes and was rubbing his temple.

The silence dissipated as Lestrade's mobile began to ping insistently. He checked the caller ID and then excused himself from the room.

Sherlock spoke. "Mycroft. The treaty… has there been any word about who might have received the documents?"

John frowned. "What? What are you talking about? I thought they all had…passcodes or something." He was clearly missing something.

Sherlock turned his head to address him. "Before we arrived, Valentina had used Anthea as bait to force Mycroft to give up the passwords." John watched Mycroft's eyes slide shut in…what, anger, disappointment, frustration?

"She was quite the brilliant little actress, wasn't she?" Mycroft muttered. He opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock. "The chatter hasn't given us indication that the plans found their way out. She definitely had someone check to make sure the passcodes worked, but it isn't definitive as to what that person did with the documents after that."

At this, Arthur opened his eyes and slid a mobile from his pocket. He eyed the three other men as he typed something into the device.

"I believe I know someone who does, Mycroft."


	27. Resolutions

Ch. 25: Resolutions

* * *

The expressions on the faces of the three men opposite Arthur were priceless. He wished he could have taken a photo. Arthur then remembered the smartphone in his hands, so he opened the application and snapped a quick photo of the positively dumbstruck men before he smiled and saved it. He folded his hands and waited for one of them to say something.

It was Sherlock who broke the silence first. "Would you like to clarify, Arthur?"

Arthur was saved from answering by the entrance of a young man in a sharp black suit. He had thick, dark hair that was combed neatly away from his clean shaven face. He looked over the two Holmes brothers and John with intelligent brown eyes before he turned to look down at Arthur.

"You rang?" the man said in a crisp tenor voice. The look on his face was an attempt at seriousness but they could all see the slight playfulness that rested underneath.

Arthur chuckled. "Cheeky bastard," he muttered, gesturing for the young man to sit in Lestrade's vacated chair. "Sherlock, Mycroft, John, I would like to introduce you to Joseph Tangey." Joseph stepped forward to shake everyone's hand before taking the empty chair beside Arthur.

"Joseph," Arthur explained, "has been the one intercepting and responding Valentina's missives regarding the treaty documents."

There was a silence unlike anything they'd ever heard before. John had often been stunned into silence because of the Holmes brothers, but it was a very rare occasion that he witnessed them being stunned into silence themselves. That fact alone seemed to be delighting Arthur to no end.

When no one seemed to be able to deduce how Joseph was involved, the man cleared his throat and sat up to the edge of his chair.

"Allow me to explain," he said. "I am a communications and technology analyst for a branch of the British Intelligence organization. About two months ago, we had a red flag on one of the people on our wanted list. His name was Nelson Hammond, and he was…to put it simply, a professional hacker. We'd been tracking his movements in an attempt to catch him in the act and put him away for a very long time. We got word that he was on the move and had found employment, but we didn't know the specifics."

Joseph paused and shifted in his seat. "Fortunately, I happen to look like a body double for Nelson Hammond, and with the right contact lenses and hair dye, we could pass easily as twins. It was all rather absurdly simple to ambush Hammond and substitute myself in his place. I met the woman named Persephone and she provided me with the information. I was to go about setting up foreign contacts in preparation for the sale of a naval treaty being drafted. I was also contracted to crack the passcodes that protected the documents and things like that."

Joseph pulled out a small, black memory stick and handed it to Mycroft. "Suffice to say I never actually contacted any of those foreign nations and the information contained on this device never left."

Mycroft accepted the stick with a wordless stare at the young man. Sherlock had the beginnings of a small smirk painted on his face. John was not so easily mollified.

"Wait a second," he spluttered. "So…if British Intelligence has had an operative inside the whole time…why was there such a scandal when the treaty was stolen? If they knew one of their own was going to be handling all the information…" Realization smacked John in the face. Ah. That would be assuming that someone knew about Joseph's mission.

Joseph smiled. "Sometimes British Intelligence is a contradiction of terms, don't you think, Dr. Watson? Communication between all the branches of Intel is not exactly as forthcoming as you might imagine. And because the treaty itself was top-secret, I didn't even know the specifics of the files until I received that memory stick. I cracked a few of the more simple documents in an effort to show them that I was…making an effort. I then told them that there was no way for me to crack the last few codes and that I needed Mycroft Holmes to give me the passwords. I knew that would force them to have to meet and would hopefully trigger a situation which could be utilized to apprehend Persephone and the mystery woman I was working for. After a fashion, it worked."

Mycroft was still staring at the young man. He cleared his throat gently and said, "I believe I owe you my career, Mr. Tangey. I thank you for that."

Joseph graciously nodded his head in acknowledgement. "Sometimes we all need a helping hand, Mr. Holmes."

John glanced at Arthur. "Arthur," he said, "how do you know Joseph? I mean… you've basically solved this whole problem from stem to stern, you and Joseph. How?"

Arthur looked at John, but it was Sherlock who answered. "Oh isn't it obvious, John? Joseph is very clearly Arthur's grandson. I mean just look at the dimple in his chin…" Sherlock rattled on for another minute about the obvious physical traits that linked Joseph and Arthur as grandfather and grandson.

Arthur smiled. "Yes, Joseph is my grandson. Our family has been working with the Holmes family for a long time."

Mycroft was slowly shaking his head. "Arthur, Joseph. Your aid in this matter is most appreciated. You have my gratitude. I am not certain how I can repay you for your kindnesses to me and my family."

Joseph made a face and began suggesting something along the lines of a tropical vacation, but Arthur reached over and cuffed the young man gently on the back of the head. Joseph rubbed his head good-naturedly and deferred to his grandfather. Arthur eyeballed the two Holmes with a steady eye.

"There may come a day when my family and I call upon the Holmes brothers for assistance," Arthur said. "When that day comes, I will be expecting you to answer that call. Until then…" Arthur flashed them a wicked smile. "I am satisfied knowing that I have Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes in my debt."

John chuckled with obvious mirth and the Holmes brothers allowed genuine smiles to grace their aristocratic features.

00000000000

"No, Sherlock! I'm fine, really. I can manage to get up the steps to my own bloody flat without you needing to- nnnggghhh!"

John threw his arms around Sherlock's long neck as the taller man swept him up into his arms bridal-style. Sherlock glanced down at him with a mischievous smile and John was momentarily torn between the need to beat the man into a pulp and the need to snog him senseless.

He settled instead for the middle ground. "Bloody git," he mumbled under his breath as he reached one hand up from Sherlock's neck to brush a thumb across the defined cheekbone. Sherlock purred in satisfaction and John felt it rumble against his own body. He smiled faintly before dropping his hand and looking towards the door of 221 Baker Street. He sighed.

"Fine," he grumbled. "Onward, Jeeves," he commanded in a louder voice, pointing his finger towards the door. Sherlock only chuckled and proceeded to carry John inside and up to the flat.

When the doctor was settled in his chair, Sherlock hung their coats on the rack and moved into the kitchen to make tea. The familiar domesticity of making tea for two almost made the past 72 hours seem like it had all been a dream. Sherlock had been able to process and catalogue a lot of the information from the case and the events at the canal while John had been recuperating at the hospital. He had been a little taken aback by Mycroft's reaction to Anthea's double life. He of course realized that Anthea was in some way the Watson to Mycroft's Holmes, but their relationship was decidedly different than Sherlock's and John's.

Sherlock leaned over the counter while he waited for the kettle and placed his chin in cupped hands. Perhaps there was more to Anthea than the distant, Blackberry-wielding PA that they knew her to be. He supposed it only made sense…there was always so much more behind a person than one realised at first glance. Sherlock's thoughts travelled to the quiet doctor resting in their living room. John at first glance was a mild-mannered, polite, generous, ex-Army doctor. What few people knew about John was that he was also a fiery, passionate, and dangerous man with a heart of gold and unwavering loyalty. These were the things that were underneath the surface. So perhaps… perhaps Anthea had been getting to Mycroft in the way that John had gotten to Sherlock.

The kettle clicked off and Sherlock moved to pour the water into their mugs, his mind still churning away. After all, there was no doubt that Dr. John Watson was having an effect on him, Sherlock Holmes… the indifferent, untouchable Sherlock Holmes. John could see into the very core of him and read his heart the way Sherlock read people's outward signs. Maybe Anthea had been able to read Mycroft in the same way. Maybe Mycroft was just softening out as he got older. Either way, the icy demeanour of one Mycroft Holmes had thawed considerably and that was enough food for thought to last Sherlock a lifetime.

Sherlock brought the two mugs of tea into the living room and handed one to John, who accepted it with a nod of thanks. Sherlock leaned over to kiss the top of John's head affectionately.

"What are you thinking about?" Sherlock asked.

John raised an eyebrow and sipped at his tea. "You mean you don't know?"

Sherlock shrugged and smiled as he slid into his own armchair. "I do…but it doesn't mean I don't want to hear you say it."

John chuckled softly and waited a moment before speaking. "I was just trying to process all of the things that have happened in the past six months or so. It's all just a little… inconceivable, you know? At first it was just the curious death of an Estonian ambassador but it all rather went downhill from there, didn't it? Murders, thefts, bombs, torture, betrayal, treason…" John trailed off with a vague wave of his hand.

Sherlock sipped his tea. "All in a day's work for us, though."

John snorted. "Lucky us."

Sherlock felt a rare upwelling of sentiment rise in his chest and simmer behind his sternum. He knew John was being sarcastic, but Sherlock couldn't help but think that maybe they were lucky. The murders and the treason and all that…it was just the sort of thing into which Sherlock enjoyed sinking his teeth. The thrill of the mystery was a craving that Sherlock ached to indulge and he had a loyal and loving partner that not only condoned his actions but helped him to do it. Not to say that John never got angry when Sherlock took risks, but by and large John supported him in his life's work and that was something that Sherlock couldn't ignore.

Sherlock cleared his throat and said, "I do consider myself lucky, John."

John frowned slightly. "What do you mean, Sherlock?"

Sherlock cleared his throat again and then summoned his courage and looked right into John's eye. "I get to work with my best friend every day. I know you don't necessarily share my enthusiasm for a good murder or high treason against England, but you support me nonetheless. In that, I am very lucky to have such a willing partner." Sherlock felt the blood surge to his cheeks and the tips of his ears and he pointedly looked away.

John let a genuine smile creep up his face. "Sherlock Holmes, was that a thank you?"

Sherlock sniffed and looked back at John. He felt the words right on his tongue, ready to slip out. _Oh, fuck_, he thought. _In for a penny, in for a pound_.

"Actually," he said, "I believe that was an I love you."

John just grinned even wider and Sherlock revelled in the way that John's face lit up from the inside out. Yes, apparently that had been the right thing to say. Good.

"I love you too, genius," John said, letting Sherlock hear the genuine affection and love shine in his playful words.

The two men—the consulting detective and the doctor—were content to look at each other from their respective armchairs and let the chorus of unspoken confessions float between them as they sipped their tea. Their resolutions needed no words.


	28. Epilogue: Proud

Epilogue: Proud

Mycroft stepped into the dimly lit room and waited for his eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness. He leaned his umbrella against the wall by the door and then looked across to where Anthea was sitting on her cot. The tension in the air was thick and the silence was resounding.

Anthea looked a fright. She was wearing a pair of loose, rumpled linen pants in a sickly olive colour and a plain white tee that fitted her poorly. Her long, dark hair was unkempt and pulled into a loose ponytail, the extra strands hanging about her haggard face. Her eyes were dark and empty and her nails had been bitten down to sore-looking nubs. She was staring at the wall over his shoulder with an intense focus that almost made him shiver.

He walked slowly across the room until he came to the chair that was plunked right beside her bed. Mycroft sank into the distressed wood carefully, knowing that sitting here put him in range of her apparently efficient martial training. The camera in the corner of the room made a small clicking sound and he knew that if the worst should happen, someone would appear within seconds to help. He was not worried.

The silence stretched for an eternity. Anthea never looked at him, her blank eyes staring into nothing and her body slack and pliant. Mycroft found himself wondering what was going through her mind, if anything at all. There was no doubt in Mycroft's mind that at least to some extent, Anthea's silence was part grieving and part processing for the events that had so recently unfolded at the canal. Even he was having trouble getting the image of Valentina's corpse out of his head. He also knew Sherlock and John were having those issues as well. No matter how accustomed to death and destruction you are, each new body and each new tragedy is like one more blow and it takes a period of adjustment to incorporate the new media.

Mycroft had a thousand and one things to ask Anthea and a million and one things to say to her. He wanted to know why she'd betrayed him. He wanted to know why… Mycroft Holmes wanted to know why. He was basically in charge of the British government. Mycroft knew why…he always knew why people did things. He could read people just as easily as Sherlock did and they both knew that Mycroft's ability was even more pronounced. Mycroft always knew people's motives, it's part of what made him so good at his job.

But as he sat watching the vacant woman beside him, Mycroft knew that he didn't know why Anthea had done this. Oh sure…he knew the given reasons…money, revenge, etc. But it was all too clean and too simple. Anthea had been working for him for years and he trusted her more than anyone and he had been so sure that she had trusted him as well. Her duplicity was an anomaly and an anomaly that puzzled him to the very core.

Mycroft sat with Anthea for a long time in the silence. He didn't watch the time go by and she never made a move or twitched in the least. Mycroft's thoughts drifted from Anthea to Valentina to Sherlock to John to Arthur and finally to Annie. Annie had been stolen from him. Anthea had been taken from him. John had nearly been taken and that would have taken Sherlock as well. Finally, Mycroft realised he didn't want to know. It suddenly didn't matter to him why Anthea had done the things she'd done. The game was over and the pieces had been put away and it was time to move on.

Mycroft stood up, brushing off his trousers with a delicate hand. He made a decision and moved directly into Anthea's line of sight. Her mind betrayed her and her eyes flicked up to meet his. They were still empty and desolate, but now they were fixed on him like a drowning man to a life preserver.

He leaned over very slowly and pressed his lips to her forehead. He felt her twitch slightly under the touch but she didn't move. When he pulled back he saw that her eyes had closed. He leaned over to whisper in her ear.

"I forgive you," he whispered.

He was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath from the woman sitting in front of him. He stepped back and moved to the door without looking at her. He picked up his umbrella and opened the door of the cell, pausing with one foot outside. He looked back at her.

Her eyes were fixed on him and there was a hint of the spark behind them that had been Anthea. There was one silver tear making its way slowly down her cheek. Her lips were pressed together in a thin line and her right hand twitched.

Mycroft left the room and shut the door behind him. His footsteps echoed in the clean hallway and he twirled his umbrella as he walked. He thought that maybe he should call to check in on John and see how his leg was healing.

In the back of his mind, he wondered if Annie would be proud of the man he had been…and the man he'd just become.

* * *

**A/N: And so we've come to the end, folks. :) If you've been following along and favouriting/following/reviewing...THANK YOU SO MUCH! This story ended up in a completely different spot than I originally planned, but hopefully it was satisfactory for all of you. Many many thanks to you wonderful people. **


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